


Said the Fly to the Spider

by BC_Brynn



Series: Part & Parcel [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dating, Getting Together, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Nobody Gets It, Puns & Word Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4791404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BC_Brynn/pseuds/BC_Brynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is being courted by Deadpool. With words. And life-saving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Said the Fly to the Spider

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you use the logic of ‘why not?’. It’s also proof positive that fanfiction rots your brain. And there’s a shout-out to sleeponrooftops’ shake it out series, because that series is aweso- ehm, I mean, marvelous (get it? get it?).
> 
> In my head, Peter is twenty, smart and jaded.
> 
> You can find more detailed warnings than "Deadpool" in the end note.
> 
> [Edited July 2017]

“You’re that guy that stole Flash’s car once,” says Peter’s mouth.

A blade is rested lightly, almost jokingly, on top of the protruding joint of Peter’s shoulder.

He stares at it, shivering just a bit, and wonders why he isn’t dead yet. Wonders if he can avoid it at this point.

“Does that sound like something I would do?” asks the man in red-and-black spandex holding the non-pointy end of the katana.

“You said you were mentally handicapped.” The car was parked in a handicapped spot. There’s context. Just, Peter’s a little too busy freaking out about the blade in the general neighborhood of his jugular to worry about it.

“That definitely sounds like something I would do,” the crazy agrees amiably. “I once unalived a Miss World finalist, did you know that? Drawn and quartered. Bullshit, no, that was her mother. Or sister. Or daughter. At one point it gets hard to tell. But there was definitely slicing involved and, let me tell you, silicone looks like a kind of bodily fluid has no place leaking out of boobies.”

Peter gapes a bit. Up to now he has been sure that there was context, but maybe there isn’t. Maybe there’s just circumstance. As a cause of death, ‘circumstance’ sucks.

“But you don’t have silicone boobies.”

“No, I really don’t,” Peter hears himself saying in an unfortunately familiar tone, that choked, high-pitched one he used to use with Flash before he had become truly resigned to the bullying and turned just cynically dismissive and deadpan in a way Flash and his cronies didn’t have a hope of understanding.

Sometimes he dreams of winning the Nobel Prize for discovering the Missing Link (discovering it sitting in the classes of his old high school), but it’s more likely he’s going to die here tonight and not win anything at all. Ever.

“Good,” the katana-wielding psycho agrees, nodding vehemently. “I mean, what’s wrong with aging with dignity?”

“The… aging?” Peter guesses.

“I look like I’d know? Give you a hint: no clue. Ain’t aged a day in… whoa, gotta go with _ages_.”

The katana slides off of Peter’s shoulder. It snicks the suit, but what’s a couple of stitches between a potential killer and his victim, right? Peter wonders if this is the moment of false hope before he’s brutally skewered.

The maybe-villain puts a hand on his cocked hip in a disconcertingly matronly pose and widely gestures with his sword. “It’s all up and down. You start dying in the seventies – or the eighties, maybe? That decade took it out of me – and suddenly it’s all internet and wifi and Wii and people live more inside their computers than outside. It’s like they forget about the important things.”

Peter doesn’t want to say it. He really doesn’t. He just… can’t help it.

“Like boobs?”

The spandexed man freezes in the middle of a hand-wave (emphasized by the blade he is clutching) and gapes at Peter as if he was having an epiphany.

Then he says: “I am going to stick my tongue into your mouth now-”

Peter reflexively kicks him off the roof.

x

It’s not that Peter doesn’t have access to SHIELD files, but he doesn’t feel like going through the hopscotch of requesting what he needs and answering questions about why he needs it and then writing follow-up reports.

So he asks JARVIS.

JARVIS is a good pal. He gives Spider-Man everything he wants to know and more besides.

Peter’s kind of beginning to regret ever asking, only not really – he’s never been good at containing his curiosity. “Oh sweet zombie president…”

“Something wrong?” Dr Banner inquires, sneaking a peek over Peter’s – okay, presently _Spider-Man’s_ – shoulder.

The screen displays the publically available part of a profile of _Deadpool_ , who is a person of interest for SHIELD, without a clear designation of ally/enemy. The part that details the particulars of his designation in regards to SHIELD is passcode-protected, and Peter doesn’t want to ask JARVIS to hack it for him.

He feels like he’s stretched the Stark hospitality a little too far already.

Dr Banner huffs at Deadpool’s public profile. “You should have seen what they’ve written about me back in the day.”

Peter takes it as the life lesson it is.

x

“I wanted to live a zombie apocalypse so bad,” Deadpool expounds, making sushi with a couple of lightning-fast slashes of his katana. “Zombies, Spidey! I feel a strange affinity with them. But then there was that thing with Abe Lincoln – that hurt my feelings! – and after Marvel Zombies came out, the idea lost all its _bzzzing_. But I had plans! I wanted to get nibbled a bit and watch the infection and the cancer and the healing factor duke it out. Massacre! Free for all! Battle Royale! Which one’s your bet?”

Peter is a little busy webbing a mutated shark-man to the wall and thinking up references to the shittiest movies in existence (starting with Sharktopus and moving on through Sharknado to the 1990’s Night of the Living Dead for some odd reason). He doesn’t have the mental capacity for playful banter worth a sparring partner in Deadpool’s league.

“Whatever would win, it’d leave you a shapeless blob on the ground,” he notes, ducking under a death-beam, because mutated shark-men now have death-beams, and he’d love if this wasn’t basically every other Tuesday in his life.

His suit is shredded to slivers over his right forearm; he thinks he might have gathered enough teeth for a necklace after today.

Not that it feels like a major accomplishment, just… silver linings are a thing. Or so he maintains.

Deadpool stands in the center of a wading pool made of the insides of mutated shark-men, and effects a thinking pose. Then he expressively waves his hand and squelches out of the perimeter of the carnage. “Eh, been there, done that, got mixed in with the Space People Jesus, and we spent the next whatever months attached at the DNA. He was kinda parasitic about it. Or was that me? I forget.”

He’s looking up at Peter, who is now hanging upside-down from the streetlamp, and somehow this amount of violent death used to bother Peter a lot more before he ever teamed up with the Avengers and saw the truth behind ‘justice’. ‘Justice’ is far more merciful to the main villain than to any of the minions or the innocent bystanders, and once the collateral damage count is that high, you start looking at checks and balances. There’s _ethically unassailable_ , and then there’s _efficient_.

It’s a thing about responsibility – it only counts when it’s to people. Not to an ideal. Which is in itself an ideal.

“Paradox alert,” Peter mutters.

“Duck goes quack, cow goes moo, Deadpool goes pew-pew and the evil stupid-looking overengineered mutant wanna-be-Namor goes _splat_!”

Deadpool is a good ally in a pinch.

“ _My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard_ – oopsie. The boys have to sleep now.”

Even SHIELD agrees. They did hire him when the getting got real rough.

“If you see my mama, tell her – tell her…” He wipes a tear away, and the katana he holds in reverse blindly slices off a shark-man’s hand at the wrist. Fin. “It’s gonna work, Spock!”

As far as Peter is concerned, today has been a horrible mess of a pinch, and he considers puking – it’s still an option – because there’s a woman in an awful, multi-colored striped dress lying on the ground. Her leg was gnawed and ripped off, and she bled out during the fight. She’s already pretty firmly dead.

There are no emergency services around.

The police cordon is so far off Peter can’t see it from his position barely above street-level.

“Zombie Spock,” Deadpool meanders conversationally back to the start. “How _green_ would that be?”

Deadpool has been _really good_ in today’s pinch.

Peter’s feeling beholden, and the least he can do is say: “I kind of liked Warm Bodies. D’you think it’s possible to restart a heart?”

Deadpool pauses as if Peter said something startling, or perhaps something worth committing to memory. But he only exclaims: “Reheat it! In a microwave!” and skedaddles.

x

In the superhero business, owing your life to someone quickly becomes a very vague concept. You get so mired in all the plots and mutual animosities and attempts to get at someone through their seemingly less formidable teammate, that after a while you’re just one more knot in the net, and basically don’t matter at all in the bigger scheme.

It’s therefore galling that Peter knows exactly how many times over he owes his life to Deadpool.

It’s fourteen, if he counts today – when Deadpool takes a ray-gun blast for him and then helps him fight against a superior force of brain-washed cyborgs – as two occasions.

“I thought you were all teamed-up now, Spidey,” the Merc points out once the fighting’s over, extracting a clawed metallic hand from his stomach.

It comes out with a rending, squelching sound that makes bile rise in Peter’s throat, and right here, right now he’s beginning to understand what kind of person Deadpool is and why the rest of the superhero community can’t seem to deal with him.

He’s dancing all over their sore points.

He’s dancing all over Peter’s sore points, but Peter’s inclined to be benevolent after two life-saves in a day, and willing to extend the benefit of the doubt, and there it is. A different perspective. The miracle of human intelligence with actual intelligence involved.

“The deal’s a bit skewed,” Peter admits, because he’s been wanting to whine about this for months, and here’s finally a person willing to listen to Spider-Man _and_ capable of understanding, who hasn’t run away fast enough when he started to talk. “I get to fight with them. There was nothing about them coming to support me written anywhere in the contract.”

Deadpool gives him a judgmental look – probably; he still has his mask on, but his body-language is anything but ineloquent – which shouldn’t work, but, hey, the gaping wound in his stomach is already closed, and the red skin-suit really works well to make the blood stand out less.

“Shitty bargaining, Spidey. I could give ya a couple pointers, if you wanted.”

“For the next time I nominally team up with a group of superheroes so I don’t get carted off to penitentiary as a vigilante?” Peter says and, wow, he sounds bitter. Before he knows it, he’s going to start listening to Dashboard Confessional and cutting. Which is not funny; self-harm is a serious problem.

Serious like mutated shark-men.

He shrugs. “It’s not like I have anything to bargain with.”

Deadpool grips the post of the lamp and hoists himself up to a standing position; it brings him basically face to face with Peter.

“What if I gave you something?” he asks. And then adds: “Shut up; this is my thing, you stay out of this. If this goes up in fucking flames, you can tell me you told me so.”

Peter waits for the conclusion. Deadpool is complicated, but Peter doesn’t believe the guy is actually inscrutable. He communicates as he lives and breathes – and that’s more than you can say about ninety-seven percent of the people Peter knows.

“No, we’re all in agreement on the issue of the shapely derriere, and I have an idea for a dress that would just- nah, Spidey doesn’t look like he’s the type. Although, he does swing around in spandex. It throws off my gaydar. Anyway, coming right back from the issue of coming to the issue of super-secret government agencies that had about a tenth of their super-secret data spread all over the internet like a disgusting non-dairy spread – not even Jesus fucking believes it’s butter, numbskulls! – and there’s a funny telepresenter-murder-bingo game I probably shouldn’t tell you about, my Friendly Arachnid Neighbor, but you definitely shouldn’t… hey, are you actually listening to me? That’s new.”

Peter gives an upside-down nod of total agreement. He’s still feeling buzzed from the fight, and he should probably wait for it to fade away before he tries to pretend to the incoming law-enforcement that he’s a shocked, frightened civilian.

Swinging always helps him calm down. It’s instinctive.

“What I was trying to get to, Oh-god of the Pert Bottom, praise be to Lord Pratchett, is that I can give you a bargaining chip if you want it. But be ye warned, Spidey, there’s a condition attached. It would require you actually _keeping the chip_.”

“Now I’m curious,” Peter says and flips over to his feet, standing a distinct several inches shorter than his sometimes-ally. He can’t control his curiosity. “What is the chip?”

Deadpool pokes him in the recently-bruised ribs and leans very close to breathe an oniony: “ _Me_!” into Peter’s face.

He runs away giggling, because apparently asking Peter to go steady is that scary.

x

Peter jumps out of the way of another mechanical tentacle and feels the wall slip under his fingers before he steadies himself.

He has managed to keep the sniffling to a minimum so far, but the sneezing reflex overrides his brain and sends his body into a spasm. He reorients himself seconds later, but he’s already in the middle of a freefall, so he can only shoot a web and hope he won’t miss.

Another sneeze wracks him, but the web hits true. He swings along an arc and smashes into a corner of a building. His ribs vociferously protest the treatment, and then there is another tentacle and-

An explosion.

Doctor Octavius is blown off his feet. Not harmed, but unable to concentrate on attacking.

Peter runs for it.

He’s only been fighting for the banter, hoping to get a clue on the cyborgs – Octavius was the foremost expert on cybernetics around, and it just made sense. Inside Peter’s head.

He swings up around a corner, attains height, and watches as the Avengers – only Hawkeye and Black Widow as far as he can see – make enough trouble that Doc Ock evacuates himself. Retreats. Whatever you call it when Natasha goes up against you and you nearly piss your pants but don’t actually die.

Sometimes Peter wishes he had a box of his own, so it could make all these off-color jokes, and he could play the politically correct devil’s advocate. Morality is a burden. Ethics suck.

“Hey Jude, did it work?”

Peter spins (no pun intended). There is a familiar black-and-red figure sitting on the edge of the roof in a pool of blood, holding a bowl of popcorn in his lap and watching the aftermath of the battle.

Peter stops having a heart-attack. He leans against the nearest conveniently positioned wall and tries to catch his breath, coughing a bit now and then, which, yeah, sends little jolts of pain along his ribcage. His ribs do ache, but they don’t hurt like the bejeezus, and breathing is hard because he’s sick and has overextended himself, not because he is bleeding into his lungs, so he comes to the conclusion of bruised-not-broken, and decides not to waste his energy getting mad at being made into a Friday night spectacle.

“Don’t be like that, my octopodal friend – oh, that makes sense, so was it a battle for territory between two members of the same species? Though, I gotta say, if you’re hiding bionic tentacles from me, I’m gonna feel sooo rejected. Tell me, Spidey-”

“I’m not,” Peter wheezes. It seems like the most reasonable course of action at the moment.

“So, not a territory dispute. Organized crime do that; it would make sense that’s beneath you, Webhead. I was kind of busy – and by busy I mean mostly dead, in the process of growing my legs back, but why mince words – mince, heh, see what I did there?” He sticks a handful of popcorn into his mouth (mask pulled up to under his nose), and it’s barely half-chewed when he continues: “Otherwise I’d have dropped in to negotiate a bit on your behalf – since we all know negotiation’s so not your strong side – but then I heard you were in trouble, so I placed a little call.” His voice suddenly switches to a screechy falsetto. “Oh, my, Mr Captain ‘merica, sir, there’s a man here hurtin’ my friend like, real bad! Please, please, come save ‘im, with a cherry on top?”

“Come save me with a cherry on top?” Peter replies, because if you are losing an argument, attack your opposition’s grammar. That’s arguing one-oh-one.

He can’t be held responsible for his words right now. He’s in pain, and _shocked_ – it hasn’t occurred to him that Deadpool actually gave a damn, much less that the guy _could_ care enough to try and save Peter while he himself was still mostly dead.

“You sound like something’s died in your throat,” Deadpool muses. “You should go home and eat pills.”

Peter thought talking to him was a cheap-thrill thing for the guy.

Maybe he has been unfair.

He cringes.

“What’s it about cherries, anyway?” Deadpool bounces straight into another incipient monologue, a kernel falling from under his mask. “ _Ma-ra-schi-no_. Sounds like a nice word. But everyone who is anyone who is not Miss Potts prefers a strawberry on their cake. How does that not translate into their _please_? If you beg, you oughta beg like you mean it? I should have asked the Captain with a strawberry on top. But Miss Potts is such a classy lady.”

“She really is,” Peter agrees, and chokes a bit, but manages not to say anything along the lines of how much she scares him.

“…no silicone tits,” Deadpool says in a faux-confidential stage whisper, and Peter hasn’t expected it, that’s the only reason why it sends him into paroxysms of laughter interspersed with wracking coughs.

It’s not even that funny.

He’s just high from the fight.

x

“Spider-Man,” Captain America’s dulcet tones ring from the comm, “take the Forty-second Street. Iron Man, Forty-seventh. We need to clear the square so SHIELD can come in for the injured.”

Tony shoots by in hot pursuit of the fleeing cyborg army.

Peter idly wonders who the hell has the time to create a second cyborg army in as many weeks. Certainly not a college student. Maybe unemployment really leaves people with that much free time? Still, there’s an army (well, maybe like a third of it left now), and there was one last week, too. The last one had ended up in pieces after a judicious application of Deadpool.

And speak of the devil-

“Oh-em-gee, does that mean there won’t be no TRL next week?”

Peter executes the least elegant grab-and-stick in the history of Spider-Man, and giggles breathlessly while the familiar red-and-black figure walks out of the dust cloud surrounding the famous corner of the Time Square.

“Were you even alive in two thousand eight?”

Peter heroically quells the giggles, looking about for any signs of danger. Steve sent him off to pursue, but there’s no one to pursue, so he just sticks around (yes, he knows, sometimes he’s ashamed of himself, but it’s better to pun intentionally than inadvertently, and he can’t really avoid it without verbal contortions that would make a Thesaurus look at him askance – case in point, _contortions_ ) and watches.

Captain America directs Hulk to start clearing a path through the rubble.

Peter makes his way down to street level. It doesn’t stop him quipping: “You’re judgmental for a guy who watched TRL-”

“Says the guy who caught the reference six years later-”

“Deadpool on the scene!” Hawkeye’s voice cuts through the chatter on the comms.

“I’m popular!” Deadpool screeches in an ear-rending falsetto. He’s obviously found the right frequency on his transceiver, as half the Avengers in Peter’s sight are cringing (the other half are Black Widow and Hulk).

Hulk only swats at his ear before he remembers that, nope, that buzzing fly isn’t going away. It nonetheless renews his enthusiasm for smashing. He smashes a lot. It’s kind of awesome to watch – literally awesome in the original meaning of ‘awesome’. Hulk is a creature inspiring a lot of genuine awe.

“Did ya miss me, Spidey-me-lad? Or is that Spidey-me-arachnid? How do you identify? What are your preferred pronouns? I could get behind calling you ‘it’ if you really insisted, but I’d rather just get behind you, if you know what I-”

“Is this individual bothering you, Spider-Man?” asks Natasha, and whoa, when did she get here? Because she’s kneeling on top of Deadpool, whom she’s mostly tied into a pretzel.

“Not really,” Peter admits, and hopes that his exhaustion covers the insecurity of his assessment. The truth is, he mostly likes Deadpool’s company. The guy at least doesn’t take Peter’s perpetual foot-in-mouth syndrome personally. “He follows me around and tries to annoy me into kissing him.” There he goes, foot-in-mouth, case-in-point.

Black Widow is looking at him with equal parts cold indifference and frosty judgment. It’s Plastics’ level of confidence-curb-stomping. “And you’re _okay_ with that?”

Peter squats on his toes on top of some twisted railing. He shrugs. The motion doesn’t upend him, so score! “Not much stops him.” He likes Deadpool, but the Avengers (the _other_ Avengers, the _real_ Avengers) don’t. On a totally unrelated note, he’d like to stay a semi-free agent and not go back to the vigilante-status. “I kicked him off a roof once; he just walked it off and was back to stalking me the next day.”

That happened. Or, no, it didn’t happen. It didn’t happen like that. But there was Deadpool, a mention of kissing, a roof, and Peter kicking Deadpool off of that roof, but when Natasha releases the not-quite-villain, raises her eyebrow even more judgmentally at Peter and walks away, Peter actually jumps off the railing and comes over to crouch by his occasional ally’s side.

“Ouchie, Spidey. The mean Spider Lady gave me a booboo. Kiss it better for me?” He proffers an open fracture of his upper arm.

Peter pinches his nose to stave off the rising bile. He takes several deep breaths and looks again. “Want my help setting anything?”

“If you ain’t got better stuff to do.” Deadpool tilts his chin over his shoulder toward the gathering Avengers.

Peter thinks about the debriefing that awaits him, and knows it will be especially grueling after the reveal of his maybe-association with the infamous Merc with the Mouth, so he decides to put it off for as long as he can. And he could achieve Olympic levels of procrastination if he put some thought into it.

“Brace yourself?” he suggests, taking hold of the arm. He only has a vague idea of what he is doing, but he has a pretty good hunch that it doesn’t matter anyway. Deadpool’s healing factor will take care of it.

He pulls.

Deadpool’s high-pitched whine makes him squeeze his eyes shut in sympathy. When he opens them again, the man’s staring at him, panting a little in the aftermath of the pain, but he sounds jaunty when he speaks. “That’s pretty intimate, Spideyboo. You’ve seen my bare bones, now. Methinks it’s time we take our relationship to the next level. No mocking of the sincere effort here; you, Spider-Me-Man, may call me Wade.” He offers his hand.

It only has three and half fingers attached, but Peter makes a solid effort of shaking it while trying not to make the injuries ( _amputations_ ) any worse.

He does open his mouth to provide his name in return, but he remembers the detail about having a secret identity. Instead, he just says: “Nice to properly meet you.”

x

“ _Pssst_!”

Peter turns around and squints into the darkness.

“ _Pssst_!”

He doesn’t see anything. New York is unexpectedly quiet tonight, and it weirds him out. He itches to pick up a few low-level lowlifes, to stay in the game and to put the message out that Spider-Man hasn’t quit patrolling just because he occasionally helps out with the bigger threats nowadays.

He’s always been more of a folk superhero than one of the really big guys.

“ _C’mon, Spidey_!” says a familiar voice in a gravelly stage whisper. “ _Pssssst_!”

“Wade?” Peter asks, because this is wacky, and while he knows a few wacky people, there’s only one who would be crouching on top of a dumpster and sticking out a plushy of himself round a corner to ‘talk’ to Spider-Man.

“Come on an adventure with us!” the plushy implores.

“Who’s us?” Peter inquires, even though he’s already headed over.

People (like for example Captain America and Director Coulson) keep telling him that Deadpool is bad news, but he has yet to see it. He has always kept his own counsel; it’s not like him to judge a person by the rumors that go around about them.

That’s why he looks up at Deadpool and mini-Deadpool and isn’t afraid that someone put a bounty on him and this is Wade on a job (even if a little paranoia would probably be healthy for him). “Are you picking up anyone else?”

“Nuh-uh.” Wade shakes his head. “It’s just you and me and the boxes and this here lil’ fella.” He shakes the plushy.

“And what are you doing tonight?”

He expects either a Pinky and the Brain reference or something to do with Mexican food, but Wade squats down so he can actually lower his voice and speak quietly: “I got a lead on the cyborg guy. Want to come with?”

“Come _where_?” Peter demands. There’s lack of paranoia and then there’s rampant stupidity. He’s not always great at determining that line, but going off with Deadpool to an undisclosed location in the middle of the night when no one knows where he is (and who he is with) seems like it’s a fairly long way in the stupid direction.

“All over me, for a start,” Wade says. “Wait, we weren’t talking about sex, were we? You’d think I’d remember it if we were, but then, I think about you and fucking a lot – it’s like a good third of my spank bank – and then I get that problem when I can’t always tell what’s real and what’s just in my head – shut up, dude, I know _you’re_ real. And while we’re at the topic, we should definitely talk about sex. And then do it. A lot.”

Well, now Peter is pretty sure he isn’t going anywhere with this guy.

He still remembers the cold touch of the katana blade on his shoulder, and he may be metahuman (as Captain Rogers likes to politically correctly refer to them now), but he’s got no chance against Deadpool’s amalgamation of _crazy_ and _mutant_.

Peter sighs and decides that even cyborgs can wait for a day longer (building an army apparently takes a week).

“Wade, I’m flattered. As asking me on a date goes, I give you an eight for creativity, but a two for execution. Next time, bring chocolates or something.”

He webs away. He hears behind him the beginning of a rant riddled with profanity, but it’s in Spanish, and Peter’s always been better at science than languages.

x

It’s a good thing Peter hasn’t verbalized his thoughts about how long it takes to raise an army, because he would have been forced to eat his words now.

It’s two days later, and another cyborg attack is happening, this time aimed at Stark Industries. Which is just plain folly, upon which Iron Man expounds over the comm. At length.

Inciting Captain America to _repeatedly_ sigh at him.

“You may as well give up, Cap,” Hawkeye notes. A moment later an exploding arrow takes out a bunch of enemy soldiers. “Tony’s never going to understand the meaning of ‘no chatter’.”

“He can’t help it,” Peter points out – in a textbook case of the pot remarking upon the blackness of the kettle. “Chatter is his default setting. You can tell he’s alright by the amount of pointless ramble coming out of his mouth.”

“No need to be rude,” Steve reproaches.

And, yeah, three months ago Peter would have blushed and stammered apologies, but now he’s older and experienced, and jaded, so he just mouths off: “Man, these days I’m held together with sellotape and rudeness. I’d probably fall apart if I stopped.”

He thinks he’s likely going to be lectured about propriety and prudence and other Steve-stuff later, after the fighting’s done, but everyone forgets his moment of childishness when Deadpool jumps out through a window, lands on top of one of the cyborgs that crashes into the ground under him and declares: “Gunslinger Girls Hunt!”

Those few who catch the reference – notably Peter and Tony – are horrified.

“I _thought_ they were smaller this time.” Natasha sounds frosty enough to give someone hypothermia.

“I beamed one on the head,” Deadpool announces, tranquing three child-sized killing man-machine constructs without a hitch in his voice. “She made this motorboat sound, like _put-put-put-vrooom_ , and went off in circles. Special-needs Robocop. Turns out they got brains, but those are just rotting there, totally disconnected. They use this instead.”

He raises a hand; between two fingers he holds something that tries to glint, but fails on accounts of being mostly covered with rusty splotches that Peter just knows are blood. It pretty descriptively illustrates exactly how Deadpool has gotten that thing out of the cyborg.

Of a girl-cyborg.

From a close enough distance, the enemy soldiers look like they are aged ten to twelve, maybe. Like a school trip to the museum, only with submachine guns.

Peter has been webbing them, but if what Wade is saying is true, then maybe Deadpool’s usual approach would actually be more merciful in this instance.

“This is not your usual em-oh,” Natasha notes.

“I don’t do kids.” There’s an unprecedented gravity in Wade’s voice. “Them’s the breaks.”

“But they’re not girls anymore,” says Iron Man and, wow, he sounds rough, though Peter’s got to admire the guts someone would need to say that out loud.

“No…” Deadpool admits. “They ain’t.”

Now’s the time for someone to point out that maybe there’s a chance to save them – that they have to try to capture them all and deliver them to SHIELD Medical. Peter isn’t the only one who turns to Steve.

In the end, not even Captain America is that much of an optimist. “I realize that euthanasia is not legal,” he speaks, voice tight but strong with conviction, “yet I still hope that no one would deny these victims what mercy we can provide.”

And Peter’s trying hard not to think about whether he could have prevented this carnage if he had gone along with Deadpool the day before yesterday.

He hopes not.

Black Widow curses in Russian, and _Steve_ hums in agreement. It’s opposite world. Tony is silent (patently _not alright_ as Peter has explained mere minutes ago), and Clint whispers about how it’s a good thing Bruce is at that conference and not here.

Sam stands on top of a nearby roof, wings giving the impression of drooping, even though it shouldn’t technically be possible.

Deadpool cuts through the rest of the unit – it can’t be rightly called an army, there’s ‘just’ a few dozens of them – and saunters over to where Peter is trying to pretend he’s at home, in his bed, having an awful, vivid nightmare.

“Not made for cutting metal,” Deadpool grumbles, examining his katana. “Gonna need to do some maintenance on them. But, hey, Spidey! I didn’t forget- okay, _maybe_ I did, but the boxes didn’t, and they reminded me. Here!”

He lobs something in Peter’s direction.

Peter’s spider sense isn’t going off, so he catches the object. It’s a small pack of M&M’s.

If he wasn’t on the verge of tears from frustration and horror, that would have been a reason to smile. He mentally adds a couple of points to Wade’s tally; he doesn’t remember when he began that. Maybe around the time Wade started saving his life.

“I’d love to say I’m going to need chocolate after today,” Peter says, mortified by how wet his voice sounds, “but I don’t think that will cut it. I don’t _want_ to be an alcoholic.” He doesn’t drink often. Barely at all, actually. It’s not worth the trouble procuring alcohol illegally, and Aunt May only buys the cooking sherry. Also, once you start to self-medicate, it’s allegedly hard to stop. Or so Tony claims.

Peter looks around and then squeezes his eyes shut.

“They were already dead,” Wade points out, trying to convince someone, even though no one is advancing at anyone to take them in as mass-murderers. “Remember what I said about the zombie apocalypse, Spidey? This isn’t what I meant, but, hey, it’s new! Haven’t seen this one before.” There’s not even a hint of amusement in his joke.

“What kind of sick mind creates something like this?” Steve demands.

Wade pouts. You can tell even through the mask. “ _Shh_ , Cap! Just _eff-why-eye_! You can’t say the s-word. It ain’t proper. Gotta call them ‘sociopathic’. Whoopsie, that’s an s-word, too.”

Peter moves over to the stairs leading up to the entrance of the nearby arcade and plops down. He wants a new lease on life. He wants a complimentary week he can spend sleeping. He wants his exams to miraculously pass themselves and his rent to pay itself and-

Hey, that’s a flask of brandy. Where did that come from?

Peter takes it, pulls his mask up to his nose and takes a swig. It burns, and makes him sneeze.

Someone laughs – with a desperate edge to it, but it’s better than the silence before.

Wade squats down by his side. Tony passes the flask to Natasha, and she in turn to Clint, who is stony in the way of professional assassins who _aren’t_ cold-blooded enough not to be traumatized by this brand of manure.

Sam lands softly nearby and shakes his head when Clint lifts the flask in his direction.

Silence falls. Yay for Earth’s mightiest heroes.

“We don’t like this,” Wade snaps, and then he’s off, filling the night with chatter, “I tell ya, Irony Man, and ya too, Spidey Prototype – you oughta teach my boy here every dang thing ya know, how cool would it be? – and Dr Pierce, three. That shit ain’t flying with me. How do ya get fifty lil’ girls to surgere – surgerize? – _surge_ into half-robots? _Fucking English_. No joy. Ya SHIELD minions gotta _squeeze_ your moles so they _squeal_. Me, in the meantime, I’m gonna hide, ‘cause you all know that ‘First they come for the commies’, and with me being Team Red, it’s _my suit_ on the line. Even though the Cap and me, we’re like two poster-boys for the evil of Imperialism. I’m your biggest fan, Super-Steve, bee-tee-dubs, follow you till you love me-”

Peter snorts.

Most of what he gets from the monologue is that Deadpool likes MASH, which basically designates him as an owner of a soul (in spite of all outward appearances), and that he listens to Lady Gaga, which Peter could have actually guessed without ever meeting him (she’s probably ‘his jam’).

Also, it marks him as unexpectedly well-read. Peter knows that poem. He wishes more people knew it. And understood what it was about. Thank you, Pastor Niemöller. And thank you, Wade.

It fits the mood of the street turned battlefield scattered with corpses of children.

He can’t let that pass unremarked-upon. “No one left to speak for the vigilante. I get it.”

Steve doesn’t, but he’s slept through the Cold War, so he’s mostly excused. The rest of the Avengers should be _ashamed_.

“You’re too young to get it!” Wade accuses him, stabbing the air in Peter’s direction with his finger, but at least there are no blades involved. It’s his personal version of friendly interaction, apparently.

“Duh.” The accusation as absurd. Peter works in media. For a given value of medium. “I’ve got internet access.”

“That’s what’s wrong with the youth of today!” Deadpool cries, and overbalances in the squat, landing in a sprawl.

Now Peter’s sure that the guy is trying to make him laugh. And, fine, Peter is charmed enough to attempt to play along, since the Avengers collectively make him feel excluded (what with Steve and Sam busy making the report, and Tony discussing diagnostics with JARVIS, and the SHIELD agents looking studiously bored, waiting for evac, passing the flask between them).

Peter nods, faux-serious. “That, and smartphones. Don’t get me started o smartphones, Wade. You know how many people I’ve saved from death-by-craved-number-of-followers-on-social-net-of-choice, because they _had_ to get a cool disaster on camera?”

“Spidezilla,” Wade pokes him in the shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise on any non-enhanced human, “you’ve got a weird relationship with dashes. Also, strong feelings. You’re causing a disturbance in the Force. It surrounds me and penetrates me and whoa, this escalated quickly. Does this rate as sex? I’m confused.”

“No. It doesn’t.” If he stays calm will the crazy person get bored and go away? Does Peter really want him to do that? “You didn’t even buy me dinner yet.”

“But I gave you chocolate.” Wade glares to the left and upwards. “What? You coulda told me sooner chocolate only rates a date. And he’s not the kind that puts out on a first date, I bet. He’s _real nice_. Classy guy. I need to stick my-”

“Don’t finish that sentence, and we’ll see about that dinner, yeah?”

Peter only realizes it afterwards, but he is actually smiling. The thought wipes the smile right off his face, but Wade did put it there, undeniably, for no other reason than because he didn’t want Peter to make a sad face at him any longer.

It’s endearing – maybe a little against his better judgment, but ultimately not against his will, and there’s always the chance that the date will crash and burn and everything will get back to the approximation of normal he’s used to. It would be easier.

But not necessarily better, and Aunt May always chides him to take the opportunities he is offered.

He’s very sure she’s never imagined anything even vaguely resembling this situation for him, but this is who he is, this is _his life_ , and the principle applies. He hopes. So he slips a fast-food joint advertisement out of Deadpool’s belt-pouch, checks out the address and mutters: “Tuesday, half past seven.”

Finally, Peter finds the motivation to make himself stand up. His stylish exit is ruined by Clint, who is suddenly leading him off to the side and leaning close to his ear to mutter: “Lil’ man, I’d ask if you’re sure what you’re doing, but that’s a stupid question, and I hate asking stupid questions.”

Peter blinks. The man who usually doesn’t waste _a word_ has just wasted _a whole sentence_.

“So,” Clint presses a card into Peter’s palm, “I’m giving you my phone number, because when this soap-bubble pops, you’re going to need a ride. And I can drive. No, really. I promise I can.”

Peter has in the past sat in a quinjet piloted by Clint, and he is very, distinctly, definitively, _not_ reassured.

“Call me,” Clint insists. He’s not hitting on Peter, is he? ‘cause, _awkward_.

Peter tries the smile-and-nod routine, but it doesn’t really work in the mask.

x

He supplies the photos which the Daily Bugle will undoubtedly run with the story about local so-called superhero endangering the peaceful denizens of New York again, and gets back home afterwards hating his job. Both his jobs, since Doc Ock left him a _Dear John_ letter written on a ‘congratulations on your wedding!’ greeting card (and thus taking all proverbial cakes, including the non-existent wedding one), disclaiming his responsibility for the cyborgs. Apparently, there are lines, and even most supervillains get offended when they’re accused of experimenting on children.

There goes Peter’s single clue.

On top of that, school is kind of kicking Peter’s butt, too.

He wants to fall into his bed, pull a pillow over his face and ignore the entire world for a while. It would make him feel better. Probably. Maybe.

It’s a moot point, anyway. He can’t hide from life in his bed tonight; he has a date.

He’s not entirely sure how it happened, although he has a suspicion that it wasn’t entirely his decision, and someone has taken advantage of a moment of weakness or a weak spot, or something of the sort – weakness was almost certainly involved.

Peter needs coffee. About a gallon of it. And some vim, but they don’t carry that at the supermarket. He asked once; you’d think he was asking for the Platform Nine and Three Quarters from the look the attendant gave him. On the less embarrassing side, even this level of sleep-deprivation hadn’t stopped him from passing the first final with flying colors. He doesn’t have the results yet, but he knows when he’s kicked butt (besides, school started it).

“Can I get a coffee?” he asks, flopping down onto a plastic seat opposite Deadpool, who is easily recognized, because he actually came in full uniform. Peter would be reconsidering the civvies, only he’s too busy trying to decipher the menu. It looks like this establishment offers one kind of coffee (likely instant and cold) in differently sized containers. “Can I get it in an IV drip?”

“Try this,” Wade says, and slides a thermos to Peter’s side of the table.

Peter takes a tiny, cautious sip. Then he throws caution to the wind and drains half the thermos. Frankly, he suspects cocaine or magic, but at the moment he doesn’t seem to be able to muster a single damn.

He doesn’t even care that the waitress is glaring at him.

“I once knew a guy who chugged nitric acid like that,” Wade notes. “Not ‘cause he liked it. Least I don’t think he did. Or maybe he did. Didn’t ask. It was on a dare.”

It’s a good thing that Peter’s becoming a little inundated to this man; else that statement might have given him a heart-attack. As things stand, he’s a little uncertain when he laughs, but he does laugh.

“What happened to him?”

“Won that thousand, blew it all on some girl that refused to put out in the end, then went on to fight in cages.  Picked up another girl that wouldn’t put out. Delivered her to Prof X’s child soldier program thingy, and there he promptly fell for another broad that won’t put out – I’m sensing a theme there, are you sensing a theme?”

“Wait-” Peter’s tired, not incapable of thought-process. “-are you talking about Wolverine?” Now the nitric acid makes sense. Sort of. Less than the cage fighting. Peter snorts. “And he seems _so mature_. Who knew he was capable of such recklessness?”

“I’d disown you if you managed to say that unironically,” Wade grumbles into his beer.

Apparently the thermos is just for Peter. And what are these butterflies doing in his mother-hugging stomach?

“I’d disown myself, probably,” Peter admits. One surefire way of recognizing a person without a sense of humor is that they take Wolverine seriously. Next step is taking J. J. Jameson seriously, and from there on it’s just a matter of waiting for the inevitable to happen. “I’d start blasting Green Day and contemplating all the ways the world has been marginalizing me more than it’s been marginalizing everyone else. I’ve got a right to my anger. Grr.”

Wade nods. “I know from marginalized. Some days I feel like a main character in Glee, only no one’s singing-”

Then the scowling waitress is there, carrying four plates of various foods that Wade apparently ordered for both of them; he’s a relic of the nineties, so Peter briefly considers forgiving him on account of television having rotted his brain, while Wade argues in rapid-fire Spanish with the woman, who isn’t the least bit intimidated by the mask, or the katana (and probably hasn’t noticed the guns yet).

Eventually Peter decides that he’s going to steal whatever Wade will turn out to prefer, and let Wade pay for it all, so it’s almost fair.

“Why the long face, babycakes?” Deadpool asks, and just barely fails to defend his plate when Peter steals his burrito.

It’s pretty impressive, since Peter’s faster than Captain America when he really tries (they tested it! Peter was sick afterwards, because there apparently is such a thing as too much pride). Peter, at least, is definitely impressed.

He’s not the only one, apparently, as evidenced by the little gift left to him last night.

He hands the greeting card over for Wade to investigate. “I found this in one of my favorite lurking spots today – which is on top of the Chrysler, so I’m pretty sure it’s for me. Also, it’s addressed.”

He spends a moment being grateful for how goofy Wade is; it makes it easier to deal with being an awkward nerdy goofball himself. Usually at this stage of a date, Peter’s already mapping out escape routes in case the ground once again refuses to swallow him up.

Right now he bites into Wade’s burrito, and momentarily likes his life.

“Are you married?” Deadpool yelps a little too loudly (people turn and then try hard to pretend they’re not staring at the yelling masked weirdo). “You’re not married! No, you’re not the kinda guy! Wouldn’t dick someone around-”

“I’m not married.” The whole idea of marriage seems completely nebulous to Peter. “I think Dr Octavius is commenting on your presence in my life, and deciding to make himself absent as a happy side-effect.” As if there was a quota of villains in a superhero’s life, and Peter was exceeding it. It’s a natural process. Just a member of his rogues gallery up and left his rightful spot to some worthy successor… nothing to see, move it along.

Peter is disconcerted. He doesn’t like thinking of Wade as a villain. Wade _isn’t_ a villain. He’s just not- _altruistic_.

On a totally unrelated note, does it make someone a bad person if they find altruism in other people unattractive? Does it make them a hypocrite if they are superheroing it up themselves?

“He’s an a-hole,” Wade assures him in a toothache-inducing attempt at a gentle voice. “He didn’t deserve you, anyway. You’ll find someone better. In the meantime, I can be the best rebound in your life-”

“It’s not a break-up!” Peter cries out, and only realizes afterwards, because now the other customers are staring at _him_ , as if _he’s weirder_ than _the masked weirdo_. “I wasn’t dati- ew, gross. I wouldn’t date the Doc if he paid me. Wait, no, that’s not what I meant-”

And there it is – his foot-in-mouth syndrome. Finally, he is feeling like himself again. Sadly, the earth still stubbornly refuses to open up and gulp him down.

“Whew! And here I was bracing for a heart-break. ‘cause I’m not gonna lie, kinda stuck on you at the moment, Peter Pan.”

Peter’s blood is forsaking his brain and migrating to the facial region, so he contents himself with stealing another burrito (Wade has somehow managed to scarf down three in the meantime) and bites into it. It’s been a while since he’s eaten anything like this. Good food is – surprise, surprise – expensive.

In the bad months, he sometimes swings up to the Stark Tower to eat. It’s awful, and the Avengers are so considerate in not mentioning it that sometimes he wants to punch them in their carefully not-pitying faces.

Wade’s not like that. He killed someone expensive, and now he has money to blow. He treats Peter, because it seems that he’s got a better chance at Peter – well, _putting out_ – than Logan has with his crushes.

“It would upset me so if some Wrecking Crew reject – and you know you’re _bad_ if the _Wrecking Crew_ rejects you – got the drop on you in the dead of night, and you didn’t have the Men in Tights running and flying and post-code-jumping to your rescue.” Wade takes a pull of his beer, sighs contentedly, and concludes: “The Unholy Trinity will cream themselves at the thought of getting to leash me.”

“Unholy trinity?”

“Hill de Vil and her two zombie directors,” Wade clarifies, mostly making unexpected sense. “Hey, Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater, think they’re the ones to start off the real zombie apocalypse?”

Peter’s met Director (Emeritus) Fury twice, and considers that low count a personal victory. He’s only personally met Director (In Memoriam) Coulson once, and that was the sort of situation that Peter doesn’t talk about; frankly, he’s scared that Coulson would find out he talked and make sure he couldn’t talk _ever again_. To anyone. About anything.

In comparison, Director Hill seems almost… affable. Like Xena on a chill pill. With guns. And a whole secret organization’s worth of secret agents at her disposal. And a way of saying the words ‘ _Mister Parker_ ’ that Peter feels in his bone marrow.

“Not really,” he says earnestly. “Public, wasteful and ineffective doesn’t seem like their style.”

“That’s the trick in it!” Wade agrees exuberantly. “Tough mother-… _Earth protectors_ , shit, Spidey, that’s my jam, it’s the sound of future, soon enough there will be the first singing robot, and there goes the human culture. It’s tragic, but not as bad as the extinction of Mexican grizzlies.” He shakes his head and waves his hands, making the burrito in his grip flop this way and that. “The SHIELD zombies are confused, poor things, ‘cause they don’t know what to do with me. They wanna keep me like a fuckin’ pet, but they can never give me nothing I want.”

“Because what you want is mostly murder, mayhem and money,” Peter points out, and promptly feels like a butthole.

But there’s a thing about money, and the thing is, that money is simply the representations of other things. And it’s generic, so it never gives you clues about what someone actually really, genuinely wants. Only that they think that what they want can be bought.

Wade catcalls and punches the air. “The three ems! Ain’t no point keepin’ me ‘round if they can’t control me. But if ya wanted, ya could be the noose ‘round my neck.”

“The leash, you mean,” Peter corrects him.

Wade shakes his head. “Nah. I play rough, bunny button. Get it? It’s ‘cause I think you’re cute. You game?”

Peter looks down and shifts a few crumbs around on his otherwise empty plate. He’s not _game_. Stags are game. And… and does. He’s not Bambi.

He doesn’t get why anyone would call him that.

“Why, Wade?” he demands, wavering between abandoning reason and going for what he wants right now and staying alive and healthy in the long term. “Tell me, honestly, what’s in it for you?”

“I do it for the sales.” Deadpool shrugs, draining the glass of beer. “Don’t look at me like that, Spidey. You don’t know what it’s like. It’s like karma, but not at all like karma, ‘cause karma’s fair.”

“That’s the point of karma.”

“Exactly! But sales – you get shit like Fifty Shades of Edward Cullen or whatever, and nobody appreciates genius. How many kudos do you think this will get on aye-oh-three?”

Peter has no idea. Mostly because he has zero clues to what Wade’s prattling on about.

He finds he’s been half-ready for a fight completely in vain when Wade pulls out a wad of crumpled notes from one of his belt-pouches and deposits it on top of a recently emptied plate. One of the edges soaks in a leftover blob of mustard.

He’s overpaying by about two hundred percent. It’s not easy, but Peter manages to not say anything as they leave, without waiting for their check.

The night’s descended in the meantime, and it’s chilly. Wade puts an arm around Peter’s shoulders, and Peter doesn’t mind.

“Why, Wade?” he repeats. He wishes Deadpool would take off the mask, so he could see his eyes. “I mean it. Why would you go back to SHIELD after what happened with Agent Gorman?”

They walk so far away from the throngs of people that Wade does take off the mask. It pretty much steals the breath from Peter’s lungs as a gesture – he has to fight not to tense at the sight.

No two ways about it; Wade’s mutilated in a striking, non-omissible way. Peter’s been bracing himself for it, and he thinks he’s probably weathered the initial shock well enough to not make the man run for the hills.

He’s considering running for the hills himself. Just a bit. He’s so fricking ashamed it’s almost a physical hurt.

“Baby boy,” Wade says, meeting his eye for real for the first time (the color of dark chocolate, who the heck came up with that idea, holy Hannah), “the only reason I offered was because you deep-fried my brain when you looked into my eyes.”

It’s nonsense.

But it’s compelling nonsense.

Peter breathes through the shock, and he’s fine. He’s getting used to the sight of Wade’s face, and now that it’s not a Schrödinger’s face anymore but a slice of reality, he finds it doesn’t matter half as much as he thought it would. It’s like vulgar graffiti, or overweight women in leggings. Not nice to look at, but reality, and it’s up to you to not let it distract you from the important things.

“You’re staring,” Wade informs him.

“Exposure therapy,” Peter’s mouth says. Then his brain catches up. “Sorry! Crud. Sorry, I don’t-”

“You word-vomit! Me to! And me three!” Wade exclaims, sliding sideways and pirouetting and coming to stand face-to-face with Peter (this is what those blonde actresses in some of the worse horror movies have to feel like). He puts his gloved hands on Peter’s shoulders, squeezes a bit and declaims: “You and me, baby, we were meant to be!”

Peter is startled into a laugh. He puts his hand on top of Wade’s, feels the rough texture of the material of his glove, listens to the frequency of Wade’s breathing, and vainly tries to hunt around for anything that would make sense. The life-saving count is verging on twenty, and this guy went to the trouble of getting Peter chocolate, which is on the whole a small and seemingly insignificant thing, but there’s a host of crucial detail behind it (the willingness to listen, the willingness to go out of his way, the willingness to compromise). Peter feels terribly old for even thinking that way, but he hears Aunt May’s voice in his head – _reminding him to take the chance, does he want to remain alone forever_? – and he steps closer.

Wade’s breath hitches.

“I just…” Peter shrugs. “…sometimes I feel… isolated.”

Wade nods sagely. “I’ll lend you a box. The sane one. Here. Now you can have conversations inside your head, too, and sometimes forget for a bit how freaking lonely it gets.”

So Peter has to kiss him. Just a bit. How else can you respond to something like that?

So there’s kissing now, and not even the really hot and heavy stuff, just the kind that makes you feel that someone’s completely incredulous about how lucky they are to get to touch you like that.

Peter’s not really anything special. It’s always felt the other way around when he kissed someone; he’s not sure he likes this. He feels terribly out of his depth.

But there’s an arm around his waist, and it’s so easy, so nice to just sink into that hold and let someone who wants to shield him from the ugliness of the world do so for a short while. Just for a bit. A gift of a delusion, tiny and sweet, from a man who is a self-proclaimed expert at delusions.

“The thing you said,” Peter breathes, not quite believing himself, but at the same time unwilling to relinquish this unforeseen treasure of an uncut diamond that has unexpectedly fallen into his lap (not literally, but they’re getting to that part soon enough, he’s sure), “about the first date and the classiness-”

“You seducing me now, Spidey? I’m sooo up for it it’s getting kinda painful-”

“No,” Peter cuts in, and hopes that he sounds more decisive than he feels. It’s the oxytocin; it’s been a while since someone hugged him. He feels warm and _connected_. “But I want a second date.”

“Text me, sugarlumps. Bye now, Spidey – I need to see a dick about some kids. And by see, I mean unalive.” Then, all of sudden, he loses all humor and darkly says: “You don’t fucking do that to kids.”

x

Sometime later Peter realizes that he has never told Wade his name.

But he’s taken him home, so there’s no point to being worried about this particular issue anymore.

x

“Head in the clouds,” Aunt May mutters, packing up her handbag for the trip to the bank; she probably thinks she’s talking under her breath, but Peter hears it anyway.

Peter doesn’t give a single – tiny – miniscule – darn.

His head _is_ in the clouds. It’s like he’s lost fifty pounds that night, he feels so buoyed. Gravity’s giving him a reprieve. He’d be dancing through life, if not for the intense awareness of how badly his attempts to dance usually end.

It’s worse than being in love. It’s _sheer giddiness_.

It’s the reason why he doesn’t notice the ambush until there are guys with guns herding the clients-turned-hostages and a shapely woman expositioning extensively on the topic of the cost of equipment for genetic engineering and cybernetics, and how this used to be the country of freedom, but now everyone has to pay taxes, and human trials are suddenly against the law.

Peter crashes from his high so harshly, it takes him a couple of minutes to regroup, most of which time he spends trying to keep Aunt May calm. She’s not used to this, but she’s as brave as any civilian can be.

Denise Baranger (as she’s introduced herself somewhere in the beginning of her villainous monologue) sends a group of her henchmen in knock-off Hydra uniforms for the loot, and tries to maintain authority by striding up and down the room and dispensing terse commands.

“Keep an eye on the time. If they’re not back in three minutes-” She pauses. “What – is – _this_?!” She glares at the thing dangling from the trigger guard of a henchman’s pistol.

“The Mockingjay emblem,” replies the Hydra goon in a hoarse whisper. “It’s my lucky charm.”

Peter doesn’t mean to snicker. Honest.

Baranger unmistakably zeroes in on him and stalks up to him; her heels give her enough lift that she doesn’t have to look up when she gets into his face, mouth twisted downwards in a bloodthirsty snarl worthy of her nickname.

Peter takes a step back and, like a frightened rabbit, looks around for an escape route. Aunt May’s presence effectively paralyzes him.

He quakes in his converse shoes and clenches his fists around the frayed edges of the sleeves of his hoodie like they are a lifeline.

He makes a picture-perfect civilian. As if all his confidence drained when he took off the suit.

He’s just Peter Parker. A nerd. A stereotype.

He wonders how far Baranger would have to go before he breaks and reveals his secret identity in front of all these hostages and Hydra.

Aunt May presses a hanky to her trembling lips – and there is Peter’s answer.

Confidence pours back into him now that he’s checked out the corner he’s been pressed into; his back is to a wall and he is ready to attack more viciously-

Baranger’s chest sprouts a tip of a blade.

She looks down at it, comically surprised.

The sword is removed in a downwards direction, slicing her body nearly in halves; the woman _pours_ to the floor, rapidly transitioning from animate state to inanimate.

“I say, what is it about supervillains that start out smart and interesting and creative – the kinda person you friend on Facebook so you can read what shit they post – man, I was totally a huge fan of Denise back in the day – _naked selfies!_ – I know, not a proof of intelligence, but villains, baby boy, at one point they just chuck their clever, workable plan, get lobotomized and set up something this stupid simply to maximize the drama.”

Baranger, Peter notes, was the last to die. Her minions have in the meantime been reduced to piles of sluggishly bleeding mincemeat here and there (he’s sorry for what happened to the Hunger Games fan, but that’s Hydra for you). By the end of Deadpool’s monologue, people’s primary shock has receded enough for the screaming to start. And the pulling out of smartphones.

Deadpool wipes the katana on a stolen piece of fabric (probably a recently deceased cardigan) and puts them away into their respective sheaths, cocking his head to the side to look at Peter. “I call narrative chicanery.”

“I may or may not be a bit demented,” Peter muses. “Because when I talked about you stalking me, I one hundred percent did not mean it like this.”

“That’s all wrong, sweetcheeks.” Wade presses one hand to his chest and raises the other into the air like a ballet dancer. “I rode in and saved your sweet cheeks. You’re supposed to offer your hand in marriage and half the kingdom.”

“If we got married, you’d get half the kingdom automatically,” Peter points out, still feeling mostly blank.

“Unless we signed a pre-nup.”

“That’s for divorce-”

“Peter,” Aunt May cuts in just as they start gaining a momentum, “are you dating this – _gentleman_?”

He opens his mouth to say ‘no’, but before it’s out there it occurs to him to wonder how honest it would really be, despite the fact that so far there was only a singular date.

They sound like a couple to Aunt May, and she knows these things. It’s like her superpower.

And Peter can’t actually truthfully say that he minds the conclusion. It might have been just the one date, but he sees no reason to not admit that there is something there – it’s not like he’s ashamed.

“Yes.”

It’s a bit awful how much it shocks Wade that someone is willing to acknowledge him (it better be that, and not Wade expecting Peter specifically to be a dipcrud).

Aunt May blinks a few too many times, as if she has something in her eye, even while her eyes are trailing over the imposing, well-proportioned but unfortunately covered-head-to-toe-in-questionable-bondage-gear figure.

Since she is a classy lady, she offers her hand anyway. “It is wonderful to meet you, young man. I would love to say that Peter’s told me all about you but, sadly, it isn’t the case.” Her eyes sharpen and it sends shivers down Peter’s spine. “How about you come over for dinner and make it up to me?”

Peter thought he had lost control of his life when he was bitten by a radioactive spider and sucked into the superhero thing. He was wrong. He lost control of his life in the instance when Wade Wilson and May Parker looked appraisingly at one another and instantly formed an alliance.

“This was supposed to be my day off,” Peter complains.

“There he goes!” Wade exclaims, clapping. “Never thought I’d say this, but, Pumpkin, it’s good to hear you whine. I got worried you were growing out of the ‘emo superhero’ trademark.”

Peter considers rethinking his association with Wade, but then he decides to table that thought-process. He’s fine with being the damsel in distress just this once. He’s got enough on his plate trying to figure out the cyborg army problem.

“Ix-nay on the iderman-Spay,” he hisses at Wade, casting significant looks in Aunt May’s direction.

“‘s a cryin’ pity,” Wade grumbles. “She’d get along with Blind Alfred like a house on fire. Prolly end up with the house literally on fire. How’s she feel ‘bout boxes?”

“What happened here?!” demands an NYPD Detective, sticking a gold shield into their faces, as if it was a proof of authority… which it actually is.

Oops. Occupational disease.

Deadpool, frighteningly, manages fairly believable, if exaggerated, _contrite_ body language. “I tried to color inside the lines, mommy,” he waves his hand, like a magician trying to distract his audience’s attention away from the twin katana on his back, “but then I remembered there are no lines, and the red got everywhere!”

On the plus side, Peter’s barely even questioned before they let him go.

On the minus side, Deadpool’s on the lam. Again. Something about the use of excessive force.

x

Sadly – but not unexpectedly – the next time Peter sees Wade it’s not a date, and it’s not a dinner with Aunt May either (although he’s not sure if the ‘sadly’ counts for this part, too).

They’re fighting another cyborg army. It’s not as bad as the tech-upped Girl Scout Corps, but it’s still pretty bad.

An exploding arrow explodes. There’s silence on the comms. Silence is bad. They’re all sick and tired of this problem, and it drags on, and SHIELD is doing eff-all about it. Peter’s seriously considering telling the others that there’s a chance Deadpool might have more info.

“Is it just me, or are we doing the quests in reverse?” his mouth quips. Peter’s fairly sure that no one will be able to follow his admittedly twisty thought-process.

“Dogs,” Director Hill says disbelievingly over the channel.

Peter hates hurting animals, especially animals that are predisposed to like and respect people. He has a secret soft spot for the Shiba dog, but he will never tell that to anybody. He used to ask his Aunt and Uncle for a collie every Christmas and birthday.

He’s rethinking his opinion at the moment, because dogs – especially cybernetically enhanced creatures made of teeth, claws and weaponry – are not an ideal pet for _anybody_.

“It’s a problem,” Iron Man says grimly. “Bruce likes dogs.”

Everyone present who isn’t in danger of being bitten right this second looks over to where Hulk is sitting, hunched-over and sulking. It’s a little hard to tell, but Peter’s pretty sure that Hulk is pouting.

He’s refusing to smash. That’s bad. That’s mutated-lizards-in-you-sewer bad.

“It would have been a problem last time, too,” Black Widow points out, to the background of pained howls, “but Deadpool solved it for us.”

Peter isn’t the only one to cringe. Killing kids is – yeah. No. Nope. A big nope.

And he’s not even getting into the backlash in media if there were suddenly videos of the Avengers slaughtering children all over YouTube.

He’s not sure if Wade just casually slaughtering them is a major-freak-out-fodder, or a feeling-protected thing. It probably depends on the man’s motivation, and that minefield’s always difficult to parse.

“Speak of the devil,” says Hawkeye.

“What’s this?” Wade asks, tuning into their frequency. “The Hello Kitty Haters convention? Sign _meow_ up!” He mows down about a dozen of the beasts with a single load. “Just kidding. Hello Kitty’s cool. Patron saint of J-rock – not my jam, but I ain’t judging.”

“You didn’t call me,” Clint mentions, as if he’s just remembered.

Peter shrugs. “I didn’t think you wanted to listen to me bragging.”

Clint theatrically gags over the comm.

At this point it’s obvious that no one takes the fighting seriously. The police could have dealt with it – except that it’s pretty obviously a part of the ongoing problem that is – now that Peter thinks about it – probably somehow related to Denise Baranger and Hydra. If he could only remember what she monologued about at the bank. He’s heard so many villain monologues by now that his mind automatically filters them out.

“Know what this needs? This needs a bigger bang. A big boom. A big – bada – boom!”

Because Peter’s getting to know the guy, he’s round the corner, crouched and covering his ears when the SUV parked across the street blows up.

Deadpool lands nose-to-nose with him a split-second before the explosion goes off, and appears momentarily captivated by the reflection of the fire blooming in Peter’s lenses.

“The mask!” he breathes. “The eyes, Spidey! Did your date ever tell you to hold still so she could fix her make-up?”

“No. I don’t date in the suit.” That’s not to say he doesn’t have fantasies involving a hero rescuing a damsel in distress and being generously rewarded. Lately, however, it feels like he’s the damsel expected to do the rewarding.

It’s like he’s entered a bigger league by mistake. Or not by mistake. He did sign on SHIELD’s dotted line.

“Except me!” Wade crows smugly. “You date me in the suit. Because I’m _speshul_. Hold still, cutie-pie, I need to fix my lipstick-”

He is special. He’s not the first super-person Peter’s been interested in, but he’s the first one that’s interested back enough to do anything about it. It’s different, to date someone as Spider-Man first and Peter Parker second. There are other expectations. And other pitfalls.

Between the two of them, Hawkeye and Captain America take care of the rest of the dogs. Cap sounds like he’s on the verge of crying as he reports this to Hill.

Peter’s feeling indescribably relieved that he was shielded from the duty of putting down the animals. A lot of that shielding has been provided by Wade, and he wonders if this is sheer sentiment on Wade’s part, or perhaps a mild willingness to actually react rationally in certain situations.

There’s not a whole lot of evidence of Wade’s willingness to be rational about anything.

Peter, on the other hand, doubts that he could remain in a relationship with someone completely irrational. Not long-term. Irrationality is worse than insanity in his book.

“Yeah,” he mumbles to himself. “You are. _Special needs_.”

But Deadpool’s already off, lifting a fallen billboard from an overturned phone booth, and letting a group of kids out of the improvised sardine can. They seem scared but unharmed, perhaps a little awed when faced with so many gathered superheroes. The teenage girl is crying – a combination of stress and relief – and the smaller kids go ‘wow’ and ‘eww’ in turns.

“Oh-em-gee, iz ze fangurrrlz!” Wade yells, and lets the billboard drop, banging and raising a cloud of dust.

The crying girl starts giggling, and then hyperventilating.

Peter’s there a moment later, guiding her to sit down and put her head between her knees, assuring her that they’re all safe and everything is fine, and then assuring the smaller kids of the same, because they look confused and on the verge of crying, too.

No one needs that. No one.

The Avengers, sod them very much, remain on the fringes of the situation, amused by Peter’s attempts at handling it. Seriously – sod them.

“Thank you, Spider-Man,” the teenager says eventually. She climbs to her feet and Peter’s a little worried she might try for a hug (or worse), but instead she looks at him shrewdly. “You’re a household name around these parts.”

“No.” He really isn’t. He’s Daily Bugle’s punching bag at best.

“Yes, you are.” She grins, offering her hands to the ankle-biters, who instantly grab them and stare up at her, amazed, as though she was a superhero, too. “You’ve got to let me do this. It’s my only chance.”

Peter has a bad feeling about this. All puns intended.

“There’s actually a nursery rhyme about you now.”

“No!” Peter insists, but he’s got this sinking sensation in his gut that comes from the grim certainty that he’ll be proved wrong in a few moments.

“Yes. I gotta- heh.” The grin widens almost impossibly, and then sound issues out of her mouth. “ _Spider-Man, Spider-Man, does whatever a spider can. Spins a web, any size; catches thieves just like flies. Look out! Here comes_ -”

The rest of the ditty (Peter hopes it’s the rest, anyway) gets drown out by Wade’s peal of laughter. Peter’s glad for the reprieve, even at the cost of being mocked.

“Oh, sweet em rating, fuck, Spidanator, they’re gonna make that your theme song. Just you wait, Henry Higgins! Am I mixing references again?”

“You are. And I know that the rain in Spain stays mainly in a plain, so you’re barking up the wrong flower-girl, Fido.”

Wade leans in close and whispers into his ear: “I am so attracted to you right now.”

“Flattered… I think,” Peter mutters back, but it does little to drown out the horror happening in front of him.

“ _Spider-Man, Spider-Man, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man_ ,” chorus the two kids the baby-sitter (a high-school newspaper reporter, Peter’s almost sure – he knows that look) has with her; she even joins them as they finish: “ _Wealth and fame? He’s ignored. Action is his reward! Look out! Here comes the Spider-Man_!”

“Oh, crud.” Peter can’t help himself. And, damn it, his eyes aren’t watering. Really. They aren’t.

Whatever, yeah? Just… just whatever.

“Shit, Spidey,” Wade says quietly, while unsubtly slinging a firm, muscular arm around Peter’s hopelessly thin shoulders. “Is that cuteness overload?”

“Teeth. Rotting,” Iron Man announces.

Of course the Avengers heard it over the comms. Of course.

Wade removes himself from Peter’s person (it elicits uncomfortably negative feelings from Peter – it’s disconcerting). He leaves with a presumably-obscene promise in… German? Probably German. Peter’s glad he doesn’t speak German, even though the blush wouldn’t be visible under his mask.

Natasha appears from a shadow, one hand still clutching a rolled-up magazine liberally stained with blood. She apparently takes irony to lethal lengths. It’s very hot.

The fire-fighters arrive, and set to putting out the remains of the burning bits of the SUV.

Paramedics converge around the three children.

“Come on, little buddy,” Tony says jovially, punching Peter in the shoulder almost hard enough to unbalance him, “you look like you need a drink.”

Peter does.

He needs it so badly, he doesn’t bother to point out he can’t yet legally drink alcohol.

x

There’s a lot of alcohol in the Stark Tower, but the Avengers mostly sit around, cool off, and sip whatever they prefer (rather than down half a bottle of vodka each and therapeutically punch one another, as Peter feared they would). The atmosphere is unexpectedly mellow.

JARVIS even plays some jazz in the background.

“Say, Spider-Man, you know this guy, right?” Tony turns to him with real, print newspaper. It’s New York Times, and there’s a photograph Peter took, smack dab in the center of the first page, and why the heck didn’t he know about this being published?

It isn’t even Spider-Man this time. Just one of the ‘cast off’ shots he would have usually scrapped, only there was Falcon in the background of this one, and he was the only thing in focus.

Peter has cropped the bit with the Falcon, and while the detail doesn’t have the resolution usually expected of photos, it makes up for this deficiency by being otherwise perfect. The hues of the setting sun all lit up, the clouds are just the right amount of stormy, the deepest shadows are smack dab in the golden ratio, and Falcon is in the middle of a mid-air turn. His muscles are clearly defined, and the wings reflect the sun in a contrast that begs to be used as an allegory.

“Yeah, I know him,” Peter says, just barely restraining himself. He wants so much to crow: ‘I took that! By complete accident!’

“He’s talented,” Tony muses, scrunching his forehead at the not entirely flattering article that accompanies the photo.

“More than half of it is luck,” Peter maintains, but there’s the fact that only about ten percent of his supposed skill is technical; the rest of it is chance, the ability to take that chance, and a certain artistic _je ne sais qui_.

Tony wanders off, demanding that JARVIS order food for them, saying something too lascivious to take seriously to Steve just to see him blush, and ending up sprawled next to Sam, first to show off the picture, then bending their heads over one of the wings, gesticulating wildly as combat experience clashes against physics theory.

Peter ends up sitting next to Dr Banner – well, _Bruce_ , but right now he’s _Dr Banner_ – and they discuss the viability of the implementation of the new water-cleaning systems designed by Stark Industries in rural areas. Peter feels sacrilegious, arguing against a genius and borderline idol like Dr Banner, but he can’t let go of the idea of some of the more toxic alkaloids from pesticides getting into groundwater.

He doesn’t notice the passing of time, but there’s suddenly the aroma of soup wafting through the living room, and Tony’s shadow falls across Bruce’s face, making them both look up.

“What is this?” the host demands, stabbing chopsticks in their direction. “The Lonely Hearts Club?”

Peter grins. “No. The _Guys with Radioactive Blood Club_.”

“You don’t have radioactive blood, Spider-Man,” Bruce assures him, exasperated.

“I do,” Peter maintains, thinking of how hard Wade laughed, and feeling warmed by the memory. “My theme song says so.”

Tony flops down onto the sofa on Bruce’s other side, and offers his carton of Chinese chicken salad.  “Since when do you have a theme song?”

“Apropos, Tony,” Bruce cuts in. “How’s that fair? Spider-Man’s got his nursery rhyme-”

Peter pouts. It may not be Schiller’s _chef d’oeuvre_ , but it’s not _that_ banal.

“-that’s actually taught to kids in pre-school these days, I think, and you’ve appropriated that Black Sabbath track, which I’m pretty sure is illegal-”

“It would be illegal, if Ozzy wasn’t such a media whore and hadn’t let me use it in hopes of yet another comeback.” Tony smirks and casually pops another piece of chicken into his mouth, which Peter would not have a hope of doing with chopsticks, much less without staring at his hands the whole time.

“-so why don’t I get a theme song?”

“But, Cute’n’Green, you _do_ have a theme song.” Tony grins, wide and terrifyingly self-satisfied.

Peter doesn’t know where exactly this is going, but he suspects it won’t be nice.

Bruce seems to have a clue. “No, Tony. Don’t do it-”

“Jarvis, play _you know what_.”

“Against my better judgment, sir,” JARVIS replies. “I truly am sorry for this, Dr Banner.”

Out of the speakers come a few notes of softly strummed guitar, and then Kermit begins to sing: “ _It’s not easy being green_ …”

Tony leans back next to them, and they listen to the slightly atonal, arrhythmic song in silence that becomes gradually more comfortable, because Bruce is a good sport about it, not insulted at all. He starts out a bit exasperated, but this sort of humor is expected of Tony – it’s what passes for gentleness from him.

Peter’s pretty sure that Tony likes Bruce, and that for Tony ‘liking’ someone is a bit less defined than for other people. It can pretty much be anything Bruce needs – or allows.

It’s kind of – _nice_.

… _green can be cool and friendly-like, and green can be big_ …

Peter’s grinning under his mask. He considers taking it off, but it’s a little too early. He thinks about how ridiculous Tony’s assertion of the Lonely Hearts Club was. Who’s lonely?

He listens – _when green is all there is to be, it could make you wonder, but why wonder? Why wonder? I’m green and it’ll do fine, and it’s beautiful, and I think it’s what I want to be_ – yeah, there’s no way Tony wouldn’t put the world at Bruce’s feet if Bruce looked like he might want it. It’s a weird kind of friendship, one that won’t necessarily remain confined to friendship, but just as well could. There’s no pressure.

Peter’s a little jealous. But this is a thing you have to go out and find for yourself, and build it up until you can rib each other with ridiculous stuff while other people get jealous over your teasing.

So Peter pulls out his phone and types a text, asking for another date.

x

The date starts well enough.

Peter and Wade both possess a healing factor that accelerates their metabolism, so they don’t mess with success and go for food. Neither of them is surprised when the excursion gets cut short and they don’t get dessert.

Both are surprised that it happens because Peter stands up from his seat and announces: “Sod this. My place is two blocks from here. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t think about the danger of Deadpool knowing where he lives (never mind that a mercenary of his caliber could find such information in under two minutes). He doesn’t think about the ‘proper’ rate of progress, or about much of anything except the way Wade’s wide hands felt on his shoulders and the look in his eyes.

Peter spends the short, fast walk yearning for another hug, oddly enough – to be enveloped in someone’s arms and feel protected; he fumbles his keys and Wade catches them before they clatter on the floor.

“This is really nice,” Wade says, letting them in.

Peter looks around the place, wondering if maybe he’s led them to a wrong building, but no – it’s his apartment. Tiny, with maps of water-damage on the plaster walls, smelling faintly of rot under the Febreeze that tries a little too hard.

“It’s a dump,” Peter concludes.

Wade sniggers and pokes his head in the doors, figuring out the layout and the exits. “Babe, I grew up in squalor. This is really nice.”

Peter wonders what Wade’s reaction will be when he’s invited to Stark Tower, and holy cannoli, what a cold shower, because it’s not likely Wade will ever be invited.

Or, okay, now that Peter’s thinking about it, Tony does seem like the type that would go along with the more insane course of action, just because it sounds like more trouble and therefore more fun. It’s a definite maybe.

Still too early to speculate – he has yet to show his face to the other Avengers. Showing his face means sharing his identity, and he’s not quite so assured of their discretion where he is concerned.

“Oooh!”

Peter glances up.

“So you _have_ got a bedroom in this place. Cotton sheets! I likes. Easy to get the stains out of – bodily fluids are a bitch to launder, and I’m not even talking about blood this time, baby boy.”

Peter sniggers, and blushes, and bites his lip in anticipation, and startles himself by how fit to burst with joy he feels. He considers what next – he wants that hug, first, and that’s maybe a weird thing to ask for when, obviously, the bed is the goal here – and decides to turn the lights off.

Wade is on him in the next instance, before his eyes have had the chance to adjust; he puts his arms around Peter’s shoulders and waist, pulling him close and tight, and kissing with abandon.

“Hey, Petey, Petey, you’re not like that kinda spider who’s going to eat me afterwards, are you? ‘cause that would be weird. I don’t mind, it’ll all grow back-”

“No _literal_ eating,” Peter promises.

They migrate to the bed in the dark, and loss of limb is likely only prevented by their respective superpowers, and Peter gasps through a giggle fit when Wade babbles at him: “Love you bunches. Banana bunches! I’m bananas over you. Love you bu-bunches. Ba-banana bu-bunches, ba-baby boy!”

Seriously, it’s the craziest and most hilarious sex Peter’s ever had – and they actually keep the lights off the whole time.

x

Peter rewards himself for passing the last final by inviting Wade over again and making a night of it. There’s a slight complication when Aunt May calls, expecting him home, but he solves that by promising her the dinner with Wade she’s been insisting upon. She lets Peter fend her off, tut-tutting about young people and romance, and he would probably be embarrassed, only he’s just happy to have passed the exams and seduced an interesting and – so far – nice guy.

So of course they’re pulled out of bed by an AA alarm. Peter does like an Avenger, and assembles.

Wade follows, either out of boredom, due to appreciation of mayhem, or simply because he doesn’t want to let Peter out of his sight yet. Peter has his favorite interpretation.

“Iron Man, Falcon, you’re on crowd control,” Steve is ordering as they arrive on site.

Mid-swing, Peter gives him a stink-eye. _Tony_ on _crowd control_. That’s a going to end _well_.

“Dude, why bunny rabbits?” Wade whines. “I hate k-wording bunny rabbits. Give me people to k-word any day. This has ruined Easter for me _forever_!”

Peter holds still and tries to figure out what to do. He can’t just… ugh. A moment later he’s very glad for his mask – because Wade goes on talking.

“Oh, Bre’r Rabbit! Please, not the ankle-biting, don’t- oh no, oh no – _oh yes, oh yes_!”

Clint groans. It’s hard to tell how much is genuine exasperation and how much is sheer melodrama. “Did you have to bring _him_?”

Peter ignores him and takes down as many of the rabbits as he can. They tear at the webbing with clawed forepaws, about half of which are metal.

He bites down a curse.

There are many rabbits, unsurprisingly, since _being many_ is basically what rabbits do.

‘Screw,’ says Wade’s voice in his head, ‘Huh, is this how having a thought box works?’

Peter suspects that’s not entirely kosher, but he doesn’t have time to dwell, due to rabbits. There are about thrice as many as there have been of any other kinds of cyborgs, but Peter still expects this to be diversion, because it’s just… low budget, for the team. He searches for a hidden enemy, an unexpected attack from behind, but his spider senses remain silent. There is only screaming – _so much screaming_ – you maybe expect that sort of thing from cats, but not from rabbits which should be fluffy and cute and non-aggressive. Instead they are nightmarish, and they cry and moan, and somewhere behind it Peter can barely hear as Tony tries to at first convince, and then intimidate the gawkers into leaving.

With little to no success.

“Was times, you yelled ‘run for your lives, suckers!’ and they would trample people in the hurry the gee-tee-eff-aye. Now it ain’t _famous last words_ , it’s more like _famous last eff-bee status_ or _famous last Instagram update_. That could be a cool gallery. I’d view that – prolly laugh myself to death over it. And wake up in a good mood.”

“You’d wake up,” Peter notes. “They wouldn’t.” He remains on guard, but there is very little of his attention or skill demanded to contain the leporine avalanche, despite the beasts’ hungry and somewhat berserk countenance. He doesn’t quite believe their claims of herbivorism.

Even though they aren’t rabid, he notes. Must have been well maintained.

“Sooo many Darwin’s Awards!” Wade cackles.

Peter can’t see him at the moment, but the post-coital need to cling is lost, anyway. They’ll wrap up here, hand it over to what part of SHIELD amounts to Animal Control, and then maybe go for some more food and try to recapture the mood.

“Twitter-themed tombstones!” he suggests, swinging over to the opposite side of the street. This is… kind of boring. Aside from the Monty Pythonesque vibe.

“ _Hashtag coolvidbro_!” Wade yells, and drops into the middle of the ragtag drove of survivors, whereupon there soon aren’t any.

Thor carries Clint down.

It’s been a while since Peter’s met the Norse ( _allegedly_ ) demigod, and he finds himself biting his tongue, worried about how someone whose culture is so different, and so heavily based on honor, would react to his brand of rampant sarcasm and irreverence. He’ll wait and see before he really lets loose-

“We received a call for battle, Sister Maria, yet I saw none here,” Thor says, apparently equipped with a comm as well, though Peter has no idea how that could even work (and he makes a note to ask JARVIS). Lightning-resistant transceiver. Cool.

“I concur,” Natasha says over the channel.

“Yeah, but at least we’ll feast well upon this night!” Wade declaims, sinking into a shoddy approximation of Shakespearean language. “So much stew! Reminds me of the sushi Spidey and I made a while ago…” He omits the fact that they didn’t exactly eat it. Still – apparently they were thinking the same thing while Deadpool minced and macerated the shark-men.

There are sounds of disgust coming from the comms; Steve actually tries to formulate a serious protest along the lines of ‘bunny is friend, not food’. Steve should probably reevaluate his friendships.

“Okay, I lied,” Peter deadpans. This crowd is at least a little more receptive to dry wit than Flash and the Goons, and he’s pretty sure that he can outrun Thor on a short distance. “I’m completely gone on Wade and I want to have his babies.”

“But! But!” Wade spreads one arm wide and clutches the other hand on the fabric covering his chest. “No! That’s not fair! I wanted to have _your_ babies!”

“We could each have the other’s baby?”

Wade beams. “They’ll be like each other’s brother from another mother!”

“Father!” Peter corrects.

Wade nods. “Rather.”

Somewhere in the distance, occupied with all the people who want selfies with the Iron Man, Tony whines.

“Tony?” Steve inquires, sounding tragically out of his depth.

“It huuurts.”

x

It turns out Peter was right.

They stand around, fuelling up on Gatorade appropriated from a vending machine that Clint deftly opened (they leave an IOU in Tony’s name, but only after Steve glares them into a state of acute contriteness). While they’re waiting for the clear-all from SHIELD, there is another alarm sounded, just a few blocks over.

The Avengers offer the use of the quinjet for relocation, and Peter would normally refuse, but Wade climbs right in, and Peter isn’t about to leave him to the dogs… so to speak.

It’s a short trip, but far from quiet (since Wade is present, and not presently inanimated).

“Know what I don’t get? I don’t get why you’re all about revenge. Revenge never solves nothing, right? I personally don’t care – it pays fucking good – but you are supposed to be role models or something.” Wade makes a hand-shadow rabbit attack the neck of Natasha’s shadow. She doesn’t react (which counts for amused tolerance in Peter’s book). “How’s that work?”

Steve turns from watching Natasha’s shadow to Peter. “Spider-Man, if you will keep bringing Deadpool along when the Avengers assemble, we may have to reconsider your membership.”

Peter’s honestly stumped. It didn’t occur to him that Wade’s presence could be a problem. Deadpool’s been nothing but helpful. Well, he’s been less than cooperative and messy and sarcastic and punny, in addition to the helpfulness, but that still isn’t a reason to ban him.

So Peter gapes a bit. Or a lot.

“ _Avengers_ ,” Sam scoffs. “More like the Euthanasia Squad.”

“Deadpool is a menace,” Steve continues, refusing to be deterred. “We don’t deny that he has helped, but he is not trustworthy, and his presence on the scene constitutes danger to all of us-”

Clint balks. “Oi, Cap-”

“-so this cannot continue. I know that sometimes orders need to be disobeyed, but this is not acceptable.”

Clint lifts his hands, like he’s distancing himself from the opinion. Natasha only lifts an eyebrow, and there are… nuances.

Sam remains silent; Thor is obviously confused without any sort of context, and Tony waits and watches. Fat lot of good is that so-called support.

The worst thing is, if Peter squints really hard, tilts his head just-so, and tries to rewind the past seventy years to a time when people died shooting at each other even more than they do today, he can sort-of understand the logic. It’s not a case of Steve being narrow-minded, or a jerk just for the heck of it. It’s the responsibility weighing on the leader of the team, and he needs to make harsh, ugly decisions that offend people, even hurt them, all for the sake of the team.

Only he’s wrong this time. He is, and Peter’s not backing down, too worked-over by years of being the bullies’ favorite target. He can out-stubborn Captain America, if he really tries.

Maybe.

It’s not very likely, but there’s a miniscule chance?

So he stands in front of Wade, sending out the signal that he’s bodily shielding him from the Avengers, that there’s a predator there, and a potential victim, and Wade is the one that needs to be protected (which is flipping absurd, but he can play-act, right?). “You know what’s worst? You’ve all been through stuff. You’ve had horrible things happen to you, too. But instead of offering support or – or even just sympathy, you just swan around and flaunt your glamorous rich superhero lifestyle. So sod your sanctimonious bullshit!”

There are hands on Peter’s upper arms, gripping fast, and a chin digs into his shoulder.

“Hey, hey, Spideyboo-”

Maybe other people believe Wade when he starts talking in that tone of voice, but Peter can tell bravado (he’s the expert), and so can Natasha, and Tony, and to a lesser extent also Clint and Sam and Bruce, who isn’t here, because he’s been sent directly to the second location.

“-don’t worry your pretty little head about ugly ole Deadpool. S’not like they’re gonna do anything that’s never been done to me before. Or maybe they will. Oooh, death by _frisbee_ , courtesy of the honest, true, one and only Captain America tee-em. That may be one for the wall. Think, Spidey! How many people can say they were done in by _Captain America_ personally?”

“Only you, Wade,” Peter mutters dryly – both an answer and an exasperated aside – leaning back to feel the solid mass of his boyfriend behind him. “And that’s gonna make it alright.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form if wiiit,” the Merc with the Mouth singsongs. “Still better than no wit, and no, I’m not talking about anyone in particular, what would make you think that? No, I’m not naming any names.” But he does add, in stage whisper: “ _Wolvie_.”

“They talk a lot,” remarks Tony. There is a prolonged pause, when no one wants to point out the obvious, until Tony takes pity on them all. “And consider for a moment, that _that_ sentence just came out of _my_ mouth.”

“But on the other hand, the sex is fantastic.”

It takes a few seconds for Peter to realize that _this_ sentence has come out of _his own_ mouth. Oh, crud.

He’s pretty sure Thor is laughing at him. And Clint is definitely snickering.

Tony turns to Steve with an expression of utter helplessness. “I don’t have a counterargument to that.”

They arrive at their destination and disembark; Tony and Steve wait for last. Tony’s giving Peter a long, searching stare, particularly focused on all the places where Wade is touching him.

Deadpool retracts his limbs and jumps off the ramp. He lands on top of a scaffolding, looks up at Tony, Steve and Peter, and flashes the victory sign.

Peter hopes he’ll find that pic later on the internet, because he’d like that as his wallpaper. It occurs to him that he’s probably a tiny little bit infatuated.

Deadpool’s not exactly paying attention, so when Hulk rams into that scaffolding, he gets knocked off.

He plummets toward the ground, starfished and screeching: “Faceplaaant!”

Peter web-catches him three feet above the tarmac.

“Party-pooper,” Deadpool and Hawkeye complain in unison; Wade promptly follows with: “ _Jinx_!”

Peter lets him drop the rest of the way to the ground and swings down to squat by him. “I don’t like the taste of blood, and I doubt you’re carrying a toothbrush on you.” Although he, admittedly, isn’t sure about that. Deadpool’s seemingly skin-tight suit contains enough surprises that Peter suspects the implementation of a pocket universe somewhere.

“Got mints,” Wade announces, and proudly brandishes a somewhat mangled box of them.

Peter takes one.

There there’s more cyberbunnies, and a mockery of a fight, which Thor sits out on top of a nearby roof, offended by what is expected of him. Peter spends it jealous of Thor’s diplomatic immunity.

Deadpool spends it hacking and getting blood-soaked. “You remember when I said I’ve got a lead on the Cyberpunk Frankenstein, Spidey? Or did I just think I was talking to you while one of the boxes pretended to be you? ‘cause they do that sometimes. It’s like roleplay-”

“I remember,” Peter says in self-defense.

“So, there’s this Hydra base in the under-underground. Like, so deep it’s getting warm down there. Only, it’s not exactly there anymore. Someone talked, Hydra minions – why are they minions if they’re neither yellow nor purple? – panicked and whee! Everyone’s off to Europe! Except the…?” He mimics guns with his fingers and double-shoots himself in the face. Even manages to do it without stabbing himself, which takes some maneuvering. “Test subjects!”

Everyone is exceptionally slow today, because somehow it is Peter who hits on the solution first. “They’re using the Avengers as a waste disposal unit?!”

“You keep taking out the trash, doncha?” Deadpool shrugs and sheaths the katana. “So, Zola had a lab in part of the sewers, but since you band of geeks – and Cap – started teaming up, Manhattan’s not such a hot vacation spot, so Zola’s decided to abandon ship. Heh, funny thing, ‘cause I hear say he let the lab-rats out into the sewers last night. The literal lab-rats, I mean.”

Peter pauses next to a signal light post and considers bashing his head against it a few times. He remembers those sewers. He has learnt to hate them with passion.

And SHIELD knows that he’s familiar with them.

He can tell where this is going.

Wade takes the lack of people shouting at him to shut up as encouragement to continue. “Bad news is: they’ve a healing factor, so they’re maybe immortal; they may or may not be able to reproduce; they’re batshit insane; they’ve got fast metabolism, so they’re hungry all the time, and they’re aggressive like… me. Good news is… hmm… they _prolly_ ain’t contagious.”

Dang it, Peter whines inside his head, can’t they just put rat poison at the mouths of the maintenance tunnels? Ugh, no, they can’t. And healing factor would probably negate it anyway. But they can call 0-800-DERATIZATION. Honestly, this is so not what Peter signed up for.

His web-slingers are close to depleted, but the slaughter is over. He feels like he’s accomplished nothing tonight, except sowing seeds of enmity between himself and Steve.

Clint’s been weird, though.

Peter’s _so_ confused.

Also, apparently, this is a Hydra-related problem, and everyone knows that those are _Sirius Bizness_. Even if it doesn’t look like it from the scene of the – cough – _mighty battle_.

“You couldn’t have told me this sooner?” he demands.

“No way, cutie. You would have tried to cut our date short.”

“Point,” Peter admits. He’s still not alright with the neglect of the issue of potential public endangerment, but then, it’s Director Hill’s problem now. “What does Denise Baranger have to do with this?”

“The Vamp is here?” Natasha cuts in, turning up out of nowhere and making the congregating Avengers jump a foot in the air. “We need to-”

“Chill, Arachné. I staked her for you.” Wade sprawls ungainly on the bus stop bench and sets to cleaning his gun. A katana would have more than sufficed, but Peter suspects that Wade’s only enjoyment of the occasion came from the way the rabbits splattered when he shot them. “She prolly refused to cross the ocean – the running water problem, always a huge issue for the bitey folk, ‘cept for ole Ned Cullen, but that’s ‘cause he has too many other issues already. Just his skin condition, man – makes mine seem like cellulitis. Zola got rid of Denise by way of me. I didn’t even get paid for it. I feel cheated.”

 “Are you actually really, seriously dating him?” Tony demands when it becomes obvious that Clint isn’t going to say anything on the topic anymore.

Peter draws himself as tall as he can – he’s glad he comes up to Sam’s shoulder – and says: “Yes, I am. Problem?”

“Don’t be judgmental, Tony,” Sam chides.

Clint makes a supportive noise. “Yeah, you’re the last who’s got a right to talk. Pepper’s your saving grace, and, I mean, she’s a fine lady, but she does _not_ pass for sane.”

Tony responds with a shrug that reads as ‘tell me something I don’t know’. “Anyone sane would have long since gotten the Hell away from me.”

“Focus, people,” Captain America bites out in his most captainly voice. “We still have a potential crisis on our hands. Input?”

“Hydra are fucking sick,” Hawkeye hisses, shooting one of the straggling rabbits, which was left behind because its mechanical hind leg malfunctioned and now was giving the beast a shock every few seconds.

Captain America sighs. “Sadly, that is not news.”

Peter cringes, recalling the on-going Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier drama. Ouch.

“Deadpool,” Hill suddenly tunes in, to general surprise, “do you have intel on what is to follow? Do they have more test subjects? Are you aware of potential dump-sites?”

“We know all sorts of stuff, Miss Alive-With-the-Sound-of-Muuusic,” Deadpool sings back. “Me, I’m a man with a price. But the price is negotiable.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to treat my Spidey right, Darth Maria! No more of this redshirt bullshit. Even if he wears a red suit. It’s team pride. Gotta get Matty on this shtick, too. We’ll blow New York out of the water! Maybe not literally – I like that one taco place. Go Team Red! High-five!”

Peter slaps the offered palm, feeling light-headed. Mixed Star Wars and Star Trek references. It’s not even funny how this guy makes Peter’s stomach flutter with the most banal things said at the exactly right time.

“Let’s talk, Mr Wilson,” Hill replies after a short consideration (and probably consultation with either of the zomb- that is, with Coulson or Fury).

“You don’t have to do this,” Peter whispers. He really, honestly, doesn’t need Wade to babysit him, or to sell his soul for Peter’s protection.

“Be back in a bit, ba-baby boy,” Wade says, drops a mask-to-mask kiss to Peter’s hairline and parkours off to find a spot where he and Hill can mutually threaten to their hearts’ content without anyone getting into a snit about it.

x

The ‘real’ Avengers pile into the quinjet.

Peter considers staying to wait for his boyfriend or going home – the second option appeals, but one of his web-shooters is nigh on empty, and the other one has less webbing left than what he usually reserves ‘in case of the worst’. It’s alarming that there’s not even a lot of the ‘worst’ going around and he can’t keep his emergency reserve intact.

Maybe he should have tried harder to fit in the Boy Scouts.

In the end, he lets the team give him a lift, after they promise – Tony crosses his heart and hopes to live on forever – that they’re going to the Tower, not the Helicarrier.

Peter likes the Tower. He hopes Wade won’t damage it too much if someone tries to deny him access in the future.

Later, Peter’s sitting above a pickle jar of coffee (a mug seemed too small and Aunt May scowls when he drinks straight from the pot), when Clint sneaks upon him to ask: “Do you trust him?”

Peter wishes he had pretended that he didn’t hear the call to assemble. He could be lying in bed with Wade right now, warm and languid and soon to be woken for a round of morning sex. It seems too distant a goal right now; he’s only just trying to come up with a viable strategy for getting home.

He’s so happy the exams are over, and he doesn’t have to drag his carcass to school today. He’s also firmly decided that Jameson can wait for his photos a day longer.

“Trust him?” Peter says and takes a sip of the coffee. It’s bitter, but he can’t detect any pickle-taste, so it’s fine. “What’s that even mean?”

Clint’s jaw tightens. His fist clenches, and he glares at the kitchen table top.

Peter knows what he means anyway. “You and Natasha, you’re assassins. You kill people, too.”

“Governmental sanction ring a bell?” Clint retorts.

“It’s a matter of degrees, then? You kill people to help other people. Wade kills people to help-”

“His bank account.”

“-and profit off it. Wade is people, too. And I can’t say I don’t understand the appeal of getting paid. I work two jobs, and study, and some days I don’t have the money to buy food, Clint.” Peter’s too tired to think about it now. He won’t come up with any novel solution an hour before dawn after a night spent doing the SHIELD league equivalent of pest control. “Wade won’t toe the line; he won’t stop killing, or suddenly become a superhero.” He takes another sip and shrugs. “But I trust him to be on my side. Right now, that genuinely seems like more than enough.”

“And down the line?”

Peter rolls his eyes.

He turns sideways on the barstool, primly crosses his legs, holds an imaginary clipboard and an equally imaginary pen, adjusts imaginary glasses, and says in a plastically polite falsetto: “So, Mr Barton, you are interested in a spot on our team. Tell me, where do you see yourself in a five years’ time?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Touché.”

Then he goes to bed.

“You are welcome to stay the night, Spider-Man,” JARVIS assures him.

“Thanks,” Peter replies wearily, ambling toward the elevator, lid screwed on the appropriated pickle jar and the jar itself safely clutched in his hand and adhered-to. “But I think someone’s probably waiting for me back home.”

And wasn’t that a trip?

x

It’s when Wade says: “I don’t know how this can work, Spidey. You’re kinda principled. I dig it – you and the Cap are _radical_ – but how’s that mesh with lil’ ole me? Like peaceful fields of golden wheat gently swaying in the wind with a combine,” that Peter realizes he’s living inside a box.

He comes out of it for exams and to pay the rent, but since Uncle Ben’s funeral, he goes right back to it the second he can. It’s got walls of superpowers and windows of pink glass, and he’s just camp enough to like it inside.

So he shrugs, steals Wade’s spoon complete with the strawberry ice cream on it, and only gives it back when it’s licked clean. “It’ll work as long as it does. If it doesn’t – we’ll either fix it, or pick up the pieces and go looking for something else.” He chases the strawberry down with some of his own chocolate. “Can you even do this any other way?”

“There’s hundred ways we can do this just based on the soap operas I saw the last time Blind Al bet me I couldn’t make my eyes bleed just by watching the idiot box.” Wade scarfs down the rest of his ice cream (smearing quite a bit of it around his mouth) and triumphantly grins. “I won.”

x

Peter gets a video-call on his Tony-issued phone.

It’s Fury.

Peter maybe shivers a little inside his converse shoes, and makes sure that the phone’s camera lens is still safely taped over.

“Does this mean I’m not off the team?” he asks, voice reaching an embarrassingly high pitch.

Something clinks on Fury’s side of the call, and there is a sound like a muffled cough or – optimistically – maybe a suppressed laugh.

“Yeah, right, punk. I tell you what I told Barton after he brought in the motherfucking Black Widow: you’re suspended for two weeks, little pissant. You’ve got your black mark; do something like this again, I’ll lock you up personally, until you’ll need a wheelchair to see the light of day again.”

“But Black Widow worked out,” Peter protests. It really wasn’t fair to punish Clint for doing something that in the end possibly saved them all.

“Fucking toddlers,” Fury mutters, possibly unaware of just how good Peter’s hearing really is. “Soul-sucking preschool.” Then, louder: “That’s not an excuse. You hear me? _There’s no excuse_. You don’t ignore orders, asset. Do it again and kiss your ‘get out of jail free’ card goodbye.”

Peter nods at the phone. He hopes the Director doesn’t have his apartment bugged, and the real, proper SHIELD agents aren’t having a good laugh at how chicken the Spider-Man is, when he says, softly: “Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t like this. He became a superhero to do what’s right, not to do what people tell him to do. It doesn’t work like that. In the end, his only judge will really be his conscience, so that gets the most important vote. And he already knows he will choose Wade over the Avengers if they make him choose – not out of ‘love’ or anything as nebulous. Just because it’s the right thing to do.

After a while of silence, once Fury judges that the impact of his threat has been sufficiently understood and internalized, he speaks again. “There’ve been people working fine alongside Deadpool. But you are one of very few who can actually work _with_ the bastard.”

Could it be? Was Wade right? Not that Peter really doubted him, but it still comes as a surprise. Can Peter use him as a bargaining chip-?

“That said, we’re placing you on the list of assets watched closely for signs of insanity.”

Peter pouts. That is worse than unfair. It's exploitation.

“Notably,” Fury continues, “more rampant signs than what is already plainly evidenced.”

Peter wants to argue, but the screen Fury is using as backdrop shows a clip of Spider-Man swinging in between New York skyscrapers, dodging death-beam blasts of shark people and laughing his ass off. It kind of… kills his defense.

x

Peter doesn’t want to dance, isn’t going to dance, can’t dance worth a damn, but is maybe vaguely willing to be convinced to dance if Wade really, but really wants to.

At least, that is roughly his train of thought while he tries to keep away from the journalists; they may technically be his competition, and he knows what guys like these are like. A simile with piranhas comes to mind. They bite, and don’t bother asking for consent beforehand.

And Peter’s a juicy morsel, wearing the Spider-Man mask and a rented tux.

“Sir!” a man calls, trying to not shout over the music, and failing. “Sir, you can’t go there!”

Heads turn.

A vision in steel-gray and red tulle dress stands in the open doorway to the front hall. It casually dispatches two security guys running up behind it with an elbow and a heel to a respective soft space, surveying the hall. It zeroes in on Peter within a few seconds, and swans over, nicking a flute of champagne from a waiter.

Somewhere in the thick of the crowd, Tony Stark giggles into Miss Potts’ shoulder, while she hisses at him – which only makes him laugh harder.

“Swell-a-gent party, Spidey! Hey, d’you think it’s called that because it makes a gent’s-”

“Don’t really think it’s got anything with parts swelling, Deadpool,” Peter cuts in quickly. And no, they are not actually telepathic.

It’s the point of no return. Peter sees it, and even recognizes it, which is a huge inconvenience, because if it passed him by unnoticed, his reaction would have been so much more genuine.

It’s a Stark Gala. It’s likely the most formal situation – outside of funerals, but he refuses to think of that right now – that Peter will ever attend, and Wade mostly-crashes it, dressed in drag, unapologetic. He’s messing with all those _well-situated_ people, and his behavior reflects on Peter, he’s technically Peter’s plus one, and this is the moment to decide.

He can still renounce Wade and keep his dignity.

He doesn’t have to think about it, but not due to the so-called obvious reasons. He’s not that infatuated, or that short-sighted, or that much of a pushover.

He stands by Wade’s side, clinks glasses with him, and drinks, while Tony signals the security that the weirdo in drag is an invited guest – which is about par for his course; it wouldn’t be a Stark party if nobody did anything gossip-rag-worthy.

Up close, Peter takes a good, close look at his date. The black, curly wig was visible already from distance, but Wade’s face is a mask. Literally. It looks like a face, but not like Wade’s face. SHIELD files suggest it’s a combination of a physical covering and a holographic projection.

The necklace Wade wears seems like it could contain a projector.

“Sick!” complains a woman that is probably about fifteen years older than she tries to pretend she is. “Someone lock that up – for public safety!”

Alright, that accidental allusion to mass-murder is a little too spot on for comfort.

Wade strikes a pose straight out of Vogue. “Fuck you, Lady! I rock this dress!”

Clint gives Peter a quizzical look, like ‘you really want to be associated with _that’_?

Peter shrugs, smiling. “He really kind of does rock it.”

Clint theatrically shudders, but he gives them a quick, blink-and-you-miss-it grin before he dives into the crowd to pretend he’s another nameless security clone.

Wade goes on ranting – mostly to insult people around them, but half of what he says goes over their heads and the other half leaves them fuming and lost for words. Or that might be the concentration of four-letter words, which Wade ups just for the occasion.

Natasha dances by with a member of the Congress (he likely thinks he’s leading, too, poor probably-evil guy). Tony and Pepper schmooze like professionals.

Peter can’t see Steve, but it turns out to be because he’s literally swarmed with people who want to get up on that, and the only defense to his virtue is provided by a fiercely scowling Sam standing inside his personal space.

Peter entertains himself with crowd-watching. He isn’t really good at this, but it keeps his mind occupied, so he stresses less. He counts people he’s photographed in the past: he’s up to seven, when he spots Dr Connors chatting with Colonel Talbot – and, whoa, Dr Ross. That explains why Bruce hasn’t been seen.

Wade finds the refreshments and offers his opinion. Loudly.

Peter’s glad they don’t have to stay long. Actually, they can’t stay long. Peter planned it that way – the obligation will get them out of this place (hopefully) before anyone starts a food-fight (with real weapons, if he knows Wade at all) and he will only go out of his mind with anxiety once. Better to fit it all into one day, and keep his Sunday free to recover from the (almost certain) trauma.

Peter doesn’t think Aunt May hates Spider-Man, she’s not a hateful person, but she certainly disapproves of him. He doubts that _Deadpool_ will ameliorate her opinion of masked vigilantism – and Wade is not exactly separable from his stage name. Mask, wig and dress notwithstanding.

 “Why the long face?” Bruce inquires mildly, stopping by on his search for a quiet, dark corner to hide in.

“If Wade continues interacting with my Aunt, sooner or later she’ll figure out I am Spider-Man,” Peter says glumly.

 “Huh.” Bruce inclines his head and contemplates. Intensely.

They’re not quite close enough to start talking about chosen families having your back when your life goes to shit, and Bruce doesn’t exactly have similar experience with parental figures, but he manages to come up with: “I think, maybe in your case it comes down to losing her to the lies or potentially losing her to the truth?”

It’s not exactly comforting, but Peter appreciates it. “If she disinherits me, can I come cry on your shoulder?”

Bruce cringes. “Maybe better try Clint first?”

Peter nods, because he probably would have done that anyway.

Wade pops in, clutching in his fist a bouquet of canapés on cocktail sticks.  “Let’s blow this popsicle stand-”

“Not literally, I hope?” Peter inquires mildly.

“Stark can afford it-”

“I’d prefer not to end the evening on quite such a high note,” Bruce mutters, and disappears into the shadows with almost Natasha-like sneakiness.

Wade feeds Peter a canapé. “Down the hatch! Why is it _hatch_ , not _hutch_? Down the rabbit hutch! How much do you bet this is rabbit meat? Stark’s a businessman, gotta keep the company cost-effective-”

Peter doesn’t throw up. He counts it as victory.

“Oh my god, let’s get out of here before someone remembers how often the Avengers order Chinese.” Because there were a lot of dogs. Suddenly, it isn’t as witty as when he was thinking about sushi during the battle. And next step would be-

“Cannibalism!” Wade breathes, astounded by the prospect. Then he grimaces (the hologram ripples with it). “Eww. Gimme a chimichanga any day. But there was a guy – Irish, I think – said it was _cost-effective_ to eat babies.”

“I don’t think our context lends itself to satire,” Peter mutters, half-dragging his boyfriend out of the room, hyperaware of the scornful and downright incensed glares targeted at their backs. And other parts.

Wade really rocks that dress. And Peter’s always worn suits well when they actually fit him.

They take a cab, because Peter insists. The cabbie looks at them with dispassion fostered by years of ferrying New Yorkers, and decides that at least they aren’t covered in bodily fluids or swathed in body odor, and that makes them acceptable customers.

When they arrive, Wade tries to pay, but Peter out-argues him.

“The gentleman doesn’t let the lady pay.” He hands over the money.

The cabbie takes it all and pockets the change as a tip. He rushes away before they can change their minds about not requiring his services anymore.

Peter takes off his mask, transitioning from a really off-his-nut cosplayer to simply the companion of a drag queen.

“Aww-” Wade pouts (this the hologram manages to convey perfectly). “-low blow. Right below the belt.”

“You’re not wearing a belt.”

“Am too.” Wade grins. “A garter belt.”

And, okay, that dunks Peter’s brain right into the depths of the gutter.

x

“That is a really handsome suit, Peter, dear,” Aunt May says, beckoning them inside.

When he was younger, that tone often lulled him into the illusion of safety. Aunt May sounds perfectly benign, maybe even genuinely appreciative. It is a trap.

So he knows, because he’s gotten caught in it a few hundred times. What he doesn’t know for certain is how to avoid it when he spots it. It’s kind of in the way. Of conversation.

“Thank you, Aunt May…?” he tries.

“It really is. But not as handsome as Petey!”

“You are quite a sight yourself, Wade,” she points out, yet milder.

Peter gulps. Oh, crud. His Aunt isn’t judgmental, but there still aren’t a lot of people who can be unaffected by the vision of a buff man in an evening gown. And matching heels. Peter idly wonders where Wade is hiding the katana.

“Thank you, Miss May. Your approval is very important to me.”

Dang, trust Deadpool to use _sincerity_ as a deadly weapon.

Aunt May and Wade engage in a staring match. Peter finishes setting the table – just the napkins and the glasses are missing – and turns down the flame under the pot of chicken soup. It smells heavenly (and not at all like rabbit, thank goodness).

“I like your young man, Peter,” Aunt May says in the end, and there’s no reason why that should sound like a death sentence, but it does. It even trips the spider senses. “Oh, don’t you look at me like that. Sit down, both of you. Tuck in.”

Peter looks at Wade, hoping for some sense. Then it occurs to him how absurd that is, and decides to take comfort in the knowledge that their mutual insanity may yet enable them to survive the insanity of the outside world.

x

Later, a lot later, Peter tries to be gentle with the tux, but he gets side-tracked watching Wade strip out of the dress – wow, he didn’t know he had a cross-dressing kink, but just _whoa_ – and it ends up mangled. Never mind.

They fall into Peter’s bed, too stuffed and exhausted for any x-rated fun, so they don’t have a reason to mourn the fact that Aunt May made them stay the night.

“You need to model that for me sometimes,” Peter says softly, a little freaked out by the possibility of being heard through the walls.

“Ooh, did you like it?” Wade tries to shuffle in impossibly closer. There’s not a whole lot of room for two grown men it the twin bed, but they like each other, so they manage. “I bought it for the dance. I never got to go to the prom, so this was like a prom redux. I even came down the stairs. Blind Al took photos, but she’s blind, so it’s not guaranteed I’ll be in them.”

Peter chuckles into Wade’s shoulder. His eyes close.

Wade presses his palm to Peter’s belly.

Then he jumps. “Fuck! It just moved!” He sounds so startled that Peter wants to break down in laughter. “Is that normal?! That’s not normal!”

Peter curls around his food-bump and tries his best freak-out face. “What if our baby is not normal? What if it has eight legs? Wade, Wade, what if it is a giant humanoid spider with strange affinity for bioengineering and Mexican food? Mother-hugger, our daughter is Cthulhu!”

Wade pauses in jumping all over the room and stares at Peter in the dim, curtains-patterned street-lamp light. His jaw hangs slack. “Fuck, baby boy, that would be so cool.”

Peter grins. “I know, right?!”

Wade hops back into the bed; springs creak; they cuddle up close, Wade muttering all sorts of – worrying – things he will teach to their elder god daughter once she hatches. It sounds like Lovecraft’s stuff made into a movie directed by Michael Bay.

“Love ya both,” Wade finishes, falling straight into sleep.

“Alright,” Peter whispers to the darkness. “Now I get that mentally handicapped comment. And Flash totally deserved it anyway.”

It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.

x

They’re woken an hour before dawn by a call to assemble.

Incidentally, it’s how Aunt May finally finds out about the Spider-Man thing. Nothing really to do with Deadpool – except for, like, _everything_.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: violence, gore, child abuse, animal abuse, slash, implied sexual situation, strong language, crack-ish, tropes, trope subversion, Deadpool, canon what canon? (based mostly on MCU, with convenient bits of comics thrown in), no zombies were harmed in the making of this fanfiction


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